BROWNING 


GIFT  OF 
A.   F.    Morrison 


MEN  AND  WOMEN 


BY 


ROEE11T    BROWNING 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
1876. 


N 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS-. 

WELCH,    BIGELOW,    AND    COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITIO». 


From  the  Author  to  the  Publishers. 

To  Messrs.  TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS: 

I  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  of  the  publication 
In  the  United  States  of  my  "  Men  and  Women,"  for  print 
ing  which  you  have  liberally  remunerated  me,  to  express 
my  earnest  desire  that  the  power  of  publishing  in  America 
this  and  every  subsequent  work  of  mino  may  rest  exclusively 
your  house. 

I  am,  my  dear  Sirs, 
with  high  esteem, 

Yours  faithfully, 
PARIS,  Nov.  29, 1855.  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


M103456 


CONTENTS. 

Pag  a 

;         LOVE    AMONG    THE    RUINS 1 

A   LOVERS'   QUARREL 6 

EVJELi^LJHOPE 13 

UP__AT__A__VILLA DOWN   IN   THE   CITY.      (AS    DISTIN 
GUISHED   BY   AN   ITALIAN   PERSON    OF    QUALITY.)        16 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 22 

FKA   LIPPO    LIPPI                 25 

A   TOCCATA    OF   GALUPPl'S 39 

BY   THE   FIRESIDE 44 

ANY    WIFE    TO    ANY   HUSBAND              ....  58 
A^EPISTLE    CONTAINING    THE   STRANGE    MEDICAL   EX- 

PERIENCj;    OF    l^ARSTTTfiTT?    THE   ARAB   PHYSICIAN  65 

MESMERISM 76 

A    SERENADE   AT   THE   VILLA           ....  83 

MY   STAR 87 

INSTANS    TYRANNUS 88 

A    PRETTY    WOMAN 92 

^BUJbP&JSOLAND   TO    THJLJJARK^  TOWER   CAME_^  96 

RESPECTABILITY 106 

A    LIGHT    WOMAN 108 

THE    STATUE   AND   THE   BUST           .           .           .           .  ]  1 1 

LOVE    IN    A   LIFE 124 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Page 

LIFE    IN    A    LOVE 125 

HOW    IT    STRIKES    A    CONTEMPORARY           .  126 

/    THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 131 

THE  PATRIOT.  —  AN  OLD  STORY      ....  136 

MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA      ...  138 

BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY         ....  146 

<rj  MEMORABILIA 183 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.     (CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS 

PAINTER" 184 

^BEFORE 194 

AFTER 197 

,     IN    THREE    DAYS      .......  198 

IN  A  YEAR 200 

OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE           ....  204 

IN   A    BALCONY.  —  FIRST   PART             .           .           .           .  217 

'*                      SECOND    PART              .           .           .  231 

"                      THIRD    PART            .           .           .           .  244 

SAUL         .           .           . 260 

"DE    GUSTIBUS  — " 284 

'     WOMEN    AND    ROSES 286 

PROTUS 289 

HOLY-CROSS  DAY.  (ON  WHICH  THE  JEWS  WERE 
FORCED  TO  ATTEND  AN  ANNUAL  CHRISTIAN 

SERMON  IN  ROME)  •  292 

THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL  I   A  PICTURE  AT  FANO       .  299 

CLEON 302 

THE    TWINS 315 

POPULARITY.            ....            ...  317 

THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY.    A  MIDDLE-AGE  INTER 
LUDE    321 

TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA      .        .        .        .        .  326 


CONTENTS.  V 

Page 

i- -  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 330 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 336 

ANOTHER  WAY  OF  LOVE 337 

"TRANSCENDENTALISM:"  A  POEM  IN  TWELVE  BOOKS  339 
MISCONCEPTIONS   ...  .  342 

ONE  WORD  MORE.    TO  E.  B.  B.  .        .       343 


MEN  AND  WOMEN. 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS. 

1. 

WHERE  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro*  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop  — 

2. 

Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 
1 


2  LOVE    AMONG    THE    RUINS. 

3. 

Now  —  the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  m  e, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 


Where  th^  domed  $i>d  jlarjng  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires  . 
C^sr  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  "narch  on  nor  be  prest, 

Twelve  abreast. 

5. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was  ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone  — 

6. 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago  ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame  ; 


LOVE    AMONG    THE    RUINS. 

And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 
Bought  and  sold. 

7. 

Now,  —  the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winka 

Through  the  chinks  — 

8. 

Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  tim<? 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

9. 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many-tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away  — 

10. 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
Waits  me  there 


4  LOVE    AMONG    THE    RUINS. 

In  the  turret,  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal,  [dumb 

When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless, 
Till  I  come. 

11. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts,  —  and  then, 

All  the  men  I 

12. 

When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

13. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  north, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force  — 

Gold,  of  course. 


LOVE    AMONG    THE    RUINS. 
14. 

Oh,  heart !  oh,  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns ! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest. 

Love  is  best  1 


A  LOVERS'  QUAKKEL. 

I. 

OH,  what  a  dawn  of  day ! 

How  the  March  sun  feels  like  May ! 

All  is  blue  again 

After  last  night's  rain, 
And  the  South  dries  the  hawthorn-spray. 

Only,  my  Love's  away ! 
I'd  as  lief  that  the  blue  were  gray. 

2. 

Runnels,  which  rillets  swell, 
Must  be  dancing  down  the  dell 

With  a  foamy  head 

On  the  beryl  bed 
Paven  smooth  as  a  hermit's  cell ; 

Each  with  a  tale  to  tell, 
Could  my  Love  but  attend  as  well. 


Dearest,  three  months  ago ! 

When  we  lived  blocked-up  with  snow,' 


A    LOVKB6     QUARREL. 

When  the  wind  would  edge 

In  and  in  his  wedge, 
In,  as  far  as  the  point  could  go  — 

Not  to  our  ingle,  though, 
Where  we  loved  each  the  other  so ! 

4. 

Laughs  with  so  little  cause ! 
We  devised  games  out  of  straws. 

We  would  try  and  trace 

One  another's  face 
In  the  ash,  as  an  artist  draws  ; 

Free  on  each  other's  flaws, 
How  we  chattered  like  two  church  daws! 

5. 

What's  in  the  "  Times?  "  —  a  ssold 
At  the  emperor  deep  and  cold  ; 

He  has  taken  a  bride 

To  his  gruesome  side, 
That 's  as  fair  as  himself  is  bold  : 

There  they  sit  ermine-stoled, 
And  she  powders  her  hair  with  gold. 


Fancy  the  Pampas  sheen ! 
Miles  and  miles  of  gold  and  green 

Where  the  sun-flowers  blow 

In  a  solid  glow, 


A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

And  to  break  now  and  then  the  screen  - 

Black  neck  and  eyeballs  keen, 
Up  a  wild  horse  leaps  between  1 

7. 

Try,  will  our  table  turn  ? 

Lay  your  hands  there  light,  and  yearn 

Till  the  yearning  slips 

Thro'  the  finger  tips 
In  a  fire  which  a  few  discern, 

And  a  very  few  feel  burn, 
And  the  rest,  they  may  live  and  learn  • 

8. 

Then  we  would  up  and  pace, 
For  a  change,  about  the  place, 

Each  with  arm  o'er  neck 
'Tis  our  quarter-deck, 
We  are  seamen  in  woeful  case. 

Help  in  the  ocean-space  I 
Or,  if  no  help,  we  '11  embrace. 


See,  how  she  looks  now,  drest 

In  a  sledging-cap  and  vest. 

'Tis  a  huge  fur  cloak  — 
Like  a  reindeer's  yoke 

Falls  the  lappet  along  the  breast : 
Sleeves  for  her  arms  to  rest. 

Or  to  hang,  as  my  Love  likes  best. 


A    LOVERS'    QUAllUML. 

10. 

Teach  me  to  flirt  a  fan 

As  the  Spanish  ladies  can, 
Or  I  tint  your  lip 
With  a  burnt  stick's  tip 

And  you  turn  into  such  a  man  ! 

Just  the  two  spots  that  span 

Half  the  bill  of  the  young  male  swan. 

11. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 

When  the  mesmeriser  Snow 

With  his  hand's  first  sweep 
Put  the  earth  to  sleep, 

Twas  a  time  when  the  heart  could  show 
All  —  how  was  earth  to  know, 

'Neath  the  mute  hand's  to-and-fro  ! 

12. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  we  loved  each  other  so, 

Lived  and  loved  the  same 

Till  an  evening  came 
When  a  shaft  from  the  Devil's  bow 

Pierced  to  our  ingle-glow, 
And  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe  I 

13. 

Not  from  the  heart  beneath  — 
'Twas  a  bubble  born  of  breath, 


10  A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

Neither  sneer  nor  vaunt, 
Nor  reproach  nor  taunt. 

See  a  word,  how  it  severeth  ! 

Oh,  power  of  life  and  death 

In  the  tongue,  as  the  Preacher  saith ! 

14. 

Woman,  and  will  you  cast 

For  a  word,  quite  off'  at  last, 

Me,  your  own,  your  you,  — 
Since,  as  Truth  is  true, 

I  was  you  all  the  happy  past  — 
Me  do  you  leave  aghast 

With  the  memories  we  amassed  ? 

15. 

Love,  if  you  knew  the  light 

That  your  soul  casts  in  my  sight, 
How  I  look  to  you 
For  the  pure  and  true, 

And  the  beauteous  and  the  right,  — 
Bear  with  a  moment's  spite 

When  a  mere  mote  threats  the  white  I 

16. 

What  of  a  hasty  word  ? 

Is  the  fleshly  heart  not  stirred 
By  a  worm's  pin-prick 
Where  its  roots  are  quick  ? 


A    LOVERS'    QUARREL.  H 

See  the  eye,  by  a  fly's-foot  blurred  — 

Ear,  when  a  straw  is  heard 
Scratch  the  brain's  coat  of  curd ! 

17. 

Foul  be  the  world  or  fair, 
More  or  less,  how  can  I  care  ? 

'Tis  the  world  the  same 

For  my  praise  or  blame, 
And  endurance  is  easy  there. 

Wrong  in  the  one  thing  rare  — 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear ! 

18. 

Here 's  the  spring  back  or  close, 
When  the  almond-blossom  blows  ; 

We  shall  have  the  word 

In  that  minor  third 
There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows  — 

Heaps  of  the  guelder-rose ! 
I  must  bear  with  it,  I  suppose. 

19. 

Could  but  November  come, 
Were  the  noisy  birds  struck  dumb 

At  the  warning  plash 

Of  his  driver's-lash  — 
I  would  laugh  like  the  valiant  Thumb 

Facing  the  castle  glum 
And  the  giant's  fee-faw-fum  ! 


12  A    LOVEiiS'    QUARREL. 

20. 

Then,  were  the  world  well  stript 

Of  the  gear  wherein  equipped 
We  can  stand  apart, 
Heart  dispense  with  heart 

In  the  sun,  with  the  flowers  unnipped,  — 
Oh,  the  world's  hangings  ripped, 

We  were  both  in  a  bare-walled  crypt ! 

21. 

Each  in  the  crypt  would  cry 
"  But  one  freezes  here  !  and  why  ? 
When  a  heart  as  chill 
At  my  own  would  thrill 

Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly  ? 
Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die  ? 

The  rest, .  .  .  settle  it  by  and  by !" 

22. 

So,  she  'd  efface  the  score, 

And  forgive  me  as  before. 

Just  at  twelve  o'clock 
I  shall  hear  her  knock 

In  the  worst  of  a  storm's  uproar  — 

1  shall  pull  her  through  the  door  - 

I  shall  have  her  for  evermore ! 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

1. 

BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

2. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  1 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  :  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


11  EVELYN    HOPE. 

3. 

Is  it  too  late  tlien,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew  — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside  ? 

4. 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love,  — 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  — 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

5. 

But  the  time  will  come,  —  at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
VYhy  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium 's  red  - 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 


EVELYN  HOPE.  15 

6. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes  ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 

7. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile 
And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  husn,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  — 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand, 
rhere,  tnat  is  our  secret !  go  to  sleep  ; 

will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


UP  AT  A  VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

(A8   DISTINGUISHED   BY    AN  KALIAN  PERSON   OF   QUAUTY.) 
1. 

HAD  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to 
spare, 

The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city- 
square. 

Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window 
there  ! 

2. 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at 

lea-t ! 

There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast ; 
While  up  at  a  viUa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than 

a  beast. 

3. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a 
bull 


UP  AT  A    VILLA UOWX  IX  THE  CITY.  17 

Just  on    a   mountain's   edge   as  bare   as  the  creature's 

skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to 

pull! 
—  I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair  '3 

turned  wool. 

4. 
But  the  city,  oh  the  city  —  the  square  with  the  house3 

Why  ? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there 's  something 

to  take  the  eye  ! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry ! 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who 

hurries  by : 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the 

sun  gets  high ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are   painted 

properly. 

5. 

What  of  a  villa  f     Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by 

rights, 
Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well 

off  the  heights : 
Vou  've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 

steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive 

trees. 

2 


IH  UP  AT  A   VILLA  --  DOWN   IN  THE  CITY. 

6. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?  you've  summer  all  at 

once  ; 
In  a   day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April 

suns  ! 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three 

fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red 

bell, 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick 

and  sell. 

7. 

Is  it  ever  hot   in    the  square  ?     There  's    a  fountain  to 

spout  and  splash  ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs  ;  in  the  shine  such  foam- 

bows  flash 
On  the   horses   with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance   and 

paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  the  conch  —  fifty  gazers  do  not 

abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist 

in  a  sort  of  sash  ! 


All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  's  to  see  though 

you  linger, 
Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  Death's  lean  lifted 

forefinger. 


UP  AT  A  VILLA DOWN  IX  THE  CITT.  13 

think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  in  the  corn 

and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the   stinking  hemp  till   the  stalks  of  it  seem 

a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is 

shrill, 
And  the   bees    keep    their   tiresome    whine    round   the 

resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons,  —  I  spare  you  the  months  of  tLe 

fever  and  chill. 

9. 

Ere  opening  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church- 
bells  begin  : 
No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off,  than  the  diligence  rattles 

in: 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a 

pin. 
By  and  by  there 's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets 

blood,  draws  teeth ; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture  —  the  new  play, 

piping  hot ! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieve  s 

were  shot. 
Above   it,   behold   the    archbishop's    most   fatherly   of 

rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new 

law  of  the  Duke's! 


20  UP  AT  A   VILLA DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

Or  a  sonnet  with   flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don 

So-and-so 
Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,   Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome,  and 

Cicero, 
"  And  moreover, "  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "  the  skirts 

of  St.  Paul  has  reached, 
Having    preached    us    those    six    Lent-lectures    more 

unctuous  than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon  strikes,  —  here  sweeps  the  procession  !  our  Lady 

borne  smiling  and  smart 
With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords 

stuck  in  her  heart ! 

Banff,  whang,  whang,  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife ; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it's  the  greatest  pleasure 

in  life. 

10. 

But  bless  you,   it'  s   dear  —  it' s  dear !   fowls,    wine,   at 

double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil 

pays  passing  the  gate 
It 's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not 

the  city ! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers  —  but  still  —  ah,  the 

pity,  the  pity ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with 

cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the 

yellow  candles. 


UP  AT  A  VILLA  —  DOWN  IN  THE  CITY.  21 

One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross 

with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better 

prevention  of  scandals. 
Bang,  whang,  whang,  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the 

fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  ID 

life! 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 


LET'S  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep  — 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

—  Only  sleep  I 

2. 

What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

—  I  and  thou 

In  debate,  as  birds  are, 
Hawk  on  bough ! 

3. 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak  — 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek ! 


A   WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD.  23 

4. 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee  ? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 

Shun  the  tree  — 

5 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry  — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens. 

Eve  and  I ! 


Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm  — 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm ! 

7. 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  ! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought  — 

8. 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands  ! 


24  A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 


That  shall  be  to-morrow 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight. 


—  Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

—  Foolish  me  ! 
And  so  tall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave  ! . 

You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 

Zooks,  what 's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  raonk ! 

What,  it 's  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 

And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 

Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar. 

The  Carmine 's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it  up, 

Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 

Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 

And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse, 

Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company ! 

Aha,  you  know  your  betters  ?     Then,  you  '11  take 

Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 

And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 

Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 

Throe  streets  off —  he  's  a  certain  .  .  .  how  d'ye  call  ? 

Master —  a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

In  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh  !  you  were  be,., ! 

Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you  're  hanged, 


26  FRA    LIPPO    LIPPT. 

How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe  ! 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knafes 

Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you. 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net  ? 

He 's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 

Just  such  a  face !  why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 

Lord,  I'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hangdogs  gu 

Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 

Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbours  me 

(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside  !) 

Aud  all's  come  square  again.     I'd  like  his  face  — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 

With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the  slave  that  holds 

John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 

With  one  hand  ("  look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped ! 

It 's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 

A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see  ! 

Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 

What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down, 

You  know  them  and  they  take  you  ?  like  enough  ! 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — 

'Tell  you  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let 's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 

Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 

To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 

And  I  've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 

A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 


FRA.    LIPPO    LTPPT. 

A.nd  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night  —  •    • 

Out" !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 

There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 

A  sweep  of  lutestrings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song,  — 

Flower  o'  the  broom, 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 

Flower  o'  the  quince, 

1  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good's  in  life  since  ? 

Flower  o'  the  thyme  — -  and  so  on.     Round  they  went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter, 

Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight.  —  three  slim 

shapes  — 

And  a  face  that  looked  up  ...  zooks,  sir,  flesh  and  blood, 
That's  all  I'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed  furniture  —  a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder  !  down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  St.  Laurence,  hail  fellow,  well  met,  — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows  ? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see  ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head  — > 


28  FKA  LI  pro  LIPPI. 

Mine  :s  shaved,  —  a  monk,  you  say  —  the  sung 's  in  that  I 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

Mum 's  the  word  naturally  ;  but  a  monk  ! 

Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us,  now  ! 

I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words,  there, 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month : 

"  So,  boy,  you  're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat  father 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  'twas  refection-time,  — 

K  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will    you    renounce "...    The    mouthful  of    bread  / 

thought  I ; 

By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me  ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palacey  farm,  villa,  shop  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'Twas  not  for  nothing  —  the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 


LIPPO    L1PPI.  29 


day-  long  blessed  idleness  beside  ! 
"  Let's  see  what  the  urchin  's  fit  for  "  —  that  came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do  !  they  tried  me  with  their  books. 
Lord,  they  'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste  ! 
Flower  0'  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is,  "  amo"  I  love  ! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was, 
"Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains  — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,  — 
How  say  I  ?  —  nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street  ! 
—  The  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonitions  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 
Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use  : 
I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 
Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge, 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 
Found  nose  and  eyes  and  chin  for  A.s  and  B.s, 
And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 


30  FRA  Lirro  LIPPI. 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked 

black. 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "  turn  him  out,  d'ye  say  ? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be !  " 
And  hereupon  they  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank   you !  my   head   being    crammed,  their   walls  a 

blank, 

Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean  :  then,  folks  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends,  — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head 
Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through,  came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf, 


Fl.'A    LK'I'O    LIPPT.  31 

Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 

The  brute  took  growling,  prayed,  and  then  was  gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried   "  'tis  ask  and  have  — 

Choose,  for  more  's  ready  !  "  —  laid  the  ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister- wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 

Till  checked,  (taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 

Being  simple  bodies)  "that's  the  very  man  ! 

Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog! 

That  woman  's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 

To  care  about  his  asthma  :  it 's  the  life  !  " 

But  there  my  triumph  's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked  — 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 

The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     "  How  ?  what 's  here  ? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 

Faces,  arms,  legs  and  bodies  like  the  true 

As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it 's  devil's-game  ! 

Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there  's  such  a  thing  a,r  flesh. 

Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 

Man's  soul,  and  it 's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  no  it 's  not  .  . 

It 's  vapour  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe  — - 

(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 

It 's  .  .  u  ell,  what  matters  talking,  it 's  the  soul  I 

Gi»3  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul. 

Here  's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God ! 


32  FKA. 


Tnat  sets  you  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with  him  ? 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  hea<ls 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colours,  and  what  not  ? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms  ! 

Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 

Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 

She  's  just  my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,  I  would  say,  — 

Who  went  and  danced  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off— 

Have  it  all  out  !  "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask  ? 

A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 

And  can't  fare  worse  !     Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow  's  simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  nought. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order  ?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron-saint  —  is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 

Sorrow  or  joy  ?     won't  beauty  go  with  these  ? 

Suppose  I  Ve  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold  ? 

Or  say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  -  - 

(I  never  saw  it  —  put  the  case  the  same  —  ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  nought  else, 

You  get  about  tho  best  thing  God  invents,  — 


fHA  Lirro  LIPPI.  33 

That's  soroewliat.     And  you'll  find  the  soul  you  have 

missed, 

Within  yourself  when  you  return  Him  thanks  ! 
•'  Rub  all  out !  "  well,  well,  there 's  my  life,  in  short, 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I  'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I  've  broken  bounds  — 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls  — 
I  'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please  — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house  ! 
Lord,  it 's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks  —  the  old  grave  eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 
The  heads  shake  still  —  "  It 's  Art's  decline,  my  son  ! 
You  're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old  : 
Brother  Angelico  's  the  man,  you  '11  find  : 
Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer. 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you  '11  never  make  the  third  !  " 
Flower  0'  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  . . .  manners,  and  I'll  stick  to  mine  ' 
I  'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they  must  know  ! 
Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to  know, 
They,  with  their  Latin  ?  so  I  swallow  my  rage, 
Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them  —  sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don't, 
For,  doing  most,  there 's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A  turn  —  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints  — 
3 


34-  FKA  LI rro  Lirri. 

A  langli,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — • 

(Flower  d1  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each  /) 

And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  o'er, 

The  world  arid  life 's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 

In  pure  rage  !  the  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no  • 

May  they  or  mayn't  they  ?  all  I  want's  the  thing 

Settled  forever  one  way  :  as  it  is, 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself. 

You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 

You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 

For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught  — 

I  always  see  the  Garden  and  God  there 

A-making  man's  wife  —  and,  my  lesson  learned, 

The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 

I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterward. 

You  understand  me  :  I  'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now  —  why,  I  see  as  certainly 
A.s  that  the  morning-star's  about  to  shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We  've  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop  — 


FllA    LIPPO    LIPPI.  35 

His  name  is  Guidi  — he'll  not  mind  the  monks  — 

They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk  — 

He  picks  my  practice  up  —  he  '11  paint  apace, 

I  hope  so  —  though  I  never  live  so  long, 

I  know  what 's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  ! 

You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike  — 

1  lowever,  you  're  my  man,  you  've  seen  the  world 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colours,  lights  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all ! 

—  For  what  ?  do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line. 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What 's  it  all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  o'er,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course,  you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 
God's  works  —  paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 
Are  here  already  —  nature  is  complete : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her  —  (which  you  can't) 
There 's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 
For,  don't  you  mark,  we  're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see  ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that  — 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI. 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now, 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?     A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !     How  much  more, 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place, 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !  oh,  oh, 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves  !     This  world 's  no  blot  for  us, 

Nor  blank  —  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

"  Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  " 

Strikes  in  the  Prior!  "  when  your  meaning's  }  lain 

It  does  not  say  to  folks  —  remember  matins  — 

Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday."     Why,  for  this 

What  need  of  art  at  all  ?     A  skull  and  bones, 

Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what's  best, 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I  painted  a  St.  Laurence  six  months  since 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style. 

"  How  looks  -my  painting,  now  the  scaffold 's  down  ?  " 

I  ask  a  brother  :     "  Hugely,"  he  returns  — 

"  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

That  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

Jiui  's  scratched  and  prodded  to  onr  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 

When  coining  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage. 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPT.  37 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd  — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !  "     Hang  the  fbolt 

—  That  is  —  you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot, 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows  !  don't  misreport  me,  now  ! 
It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.  .  .  There  's  for  you  !     Give  me  six  months,  then  go,  see 
Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  .  .  .  (bless  the  nuns  ! 
They  want  a  cast  of  my  office)  I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  in  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two  — 
Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day,    - 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 
The  man  of  Uz,  (and  Us  without  the  z, 
Painters  who  need  his  patience.)     Well,  all  these 
Secured  at  their  devotions,  up  shall  come 
Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect, 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light 


38  4'RA    LIPPO    L1PPI. 


Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !  I  !  — 

Mazed,  motionless  and  moon-struck  —  I  'm  the  man  ! 

Back  I  shrink  —  what  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake, 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

J,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  ! 

Where  's  a  hole,  where  's  a  corner  for  escape  ? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  "  Not  so  fast  !  " 

—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "  nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though  he  's  none  of  you  !  Could  Saint  John  there,  draw- 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush  ? 

We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 

Iste  per  fecit  opus  !  "  So,  all  smile  — 

I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 

Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 

Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you  're  gay 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 

Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 

The  hothead  husband  !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 

To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 

The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 

That  .spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 

Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 

And  so  all  's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 

A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence  ! 

Your  hand,  sir,  and  good  bye  :  no  lights,  no  lights  ! 

The  street  's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back  — 

Don't  fear  me  !  There's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks  ! 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S. 

1. 

OH,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  fir.d  ! 

I  can  hardly  misconceive  you  ;  it  would  prove  me  deaf 

and  blind  ; 
But  although  I  give  you  credit,  'tis  with  such  a  heavy 

mind ! 


Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  the 

good  it  brings. 

What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice,  where  the  mer 
chants  were  the  kings, 

Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the 

sea  with  rings  ? 


Ay,  because  the  sea 's  the  street  there ;  and  'tis  arched 

by  ...  what  you  call 

.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept 

the  carnival ! 

T  was  never  out  of  England  —  it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all  1 


40  A    TOCCATA    OF    GALUPPl'S. 

4. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was 

warm  in  May  ? 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid 
day, 

When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow, 

do  you  say  ? 

5. 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round    and  lips   so 

red,  — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on 

its  bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might 

base  his  head  ? 

6. 

Well  (and  it  was  graceful  of  them)  they  'd  break  talk 

off  and  afford 

—  She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he  to  finger  on 

his  sword, 

While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the 

clavichord  ? 

7. 

What?  Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  dimin 
ished,  sigh  on  sigh, 

Told  them  something?  Those  suspensions,  those  solu* 

tions  —  "  Must  we  die  ?•" 


A    TOCCATA    OF    GALUPl'l's.  41 

Those  commiserating  sevenths  —  "  Life  might  last !  we 
can  but  try  ! " 

8.       - 

14  Were  you  happy  ?  "  —  "  Yes."  —  "  And  are  you  still  as 
happy  ?  "  —  "  Yes  —  And  you  ?" 

—  "  Then  more  kisses  "  — "  Did  /  stop  them,  when  a 
million  seemed  so  few  ?  " 

1  lark  —  the  dominant's  persistence,  till  it  must  be  an 
swered  to ! 


So  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you, 

I  dare  say  ! 
"  Brave  Galuppi !  that  was  music  !  good  alike  at  grave 

and  gay  ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking,  when  I  hear  a  master 

play." 

10. 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time, 

one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds 

as  well  undone, 
Death  came  tacitly  and  took  them  where  they  never  seo 

the  sun. 

11. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  —  think  to  take  my  stand 
nor  swerve 


42  A    TOCCATA    OF    GALUPPl'S. 

Till  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close 

reserve, 

In  you  come  with  your  cold  music,  till  I  creep  thro' 

every  nerve. 

12. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  hou«e 

was  burned  — 

"  Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what 

Venice  earned ! 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal  —  where  a  soul  can  bo 

discerned. 

13. 

"  Yours  for  instance,  you  know  physics,  something  of 

geology, 

Mathematics  are  your  pastime ;  souls  shall  rise  in  their 

degree ; 

Butterflies  may  dread  extinction,  —  you  '11  not  die,  it 

cannot  be ! 

14. 

"  As  for  Venice  and  its  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and 

drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly 

were  the  crop. 

What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to 

stop  ? 


A    TOCCATA    OK    GALUm's.  43 


"Dust  and  ashes!"  So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the 

heart  to  scold 

Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too  —  what 's  become 

of  all  the  gold 

Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?  I  feel  chilly  and 

grown  old. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

1. 

How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 

When  the  long  dark  Autumn  evenings  come, 

And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue  ? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 

Jn  life's  November  too  ! 


2. 

1  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 

O'er  a  great  wise  book  as  beseemeth  age, 

While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows, 
And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 

Not  verse  now,  only  prose  ! 

3. 

Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 
"  There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek  — 

Now  or  never,  then,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 

A  mainmast  for  our  ship." 


BY    THE    FIRESIDE.  45 

4. 

I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends  * 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth,  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 


5. 

The  outside-frame  like  your  hazel-trees 
But  the  inside-archway  narrows  fast, 

And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 
And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 

And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 

6. 

I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand  — 
Oh,  woman-country,  wooed,  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-land^ 
Laid  to  their  hearts  instead  ! 


Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 
Half  way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge. 

Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 
Or  is  it  a  mill  or  an  iron  forge 

Breaks  solitude  in  vain  ? 


46  BY    THE    IIKKSIDK. 

8. 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things ; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Thro'  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings  ! 


Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below  ? 

"That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella  ;  see,  in  the  evening  glow 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  Heaven  in  snow. 

10. 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock  ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

11. 

Oh,  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain  flowers, 
And  the  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers, 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit's  begun 

These  early  November  hours  — 


THE    FIRESIDE.  47 


12. 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield,  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 


13. 

By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening  —  nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged 

Where  a  freaked,  fawn-coloured,  flaky  crewr 

Of  toadstools  peep  indulged. 

14.     . 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 


15. 

The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 
Blackish  gray  and  mostly  wet  ; 

Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dyke. 
See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 

And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike  ! 


48  BY    THE    FIUKSIDK. 

16. 

Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams 

17. 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dressers'  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts. 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 


.      18. 

It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 

With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 
\  Set  over  the  porch,  art's  early  wont  — 

'Tis  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 

But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt  — 


19. 
Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 

Dating  —  good  thought  of  our  architect's  — 
'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 


BY    THE    FIRESIDE.  49 

20. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times : 
The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 


21. 

My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh,  heart  my  own,  oh,  eyes,  mine  too, 
Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 

With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 
The  path  gray -heads  abhor? 


22. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them ; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops  — 
Not  they  ;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  our  life's  safe  hem ! 


23. 

With  me,  youth  led  —  I  will  speak  now, 
No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 

{leading  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 
And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it 

llutely  —  my  heart  knows  how  — 
4 


50  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

24. 

When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme ; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  a  rebuff 

The  response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time 

Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff — 


25. 

My  own,  confirm  me  !     If  I  tread 
This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 

To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 
To  an  age  so  blest  that  by  its  side 

Youth  seems  the  waste  instead  ! 


26. 

My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct ! 

At  first,  'twas  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do :  each  is  sucked 

Into  each  now ;  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 


27. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new  • 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  Heaven  expands  — 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  House  not  made  with  hands  ? 


BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

28. 

Oh,  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 
Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 

You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 

New  depths  of  the  Divine ! 

29. 

But  who  could  have  expected  this, 
When  we  two  drew  together  first 

Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 
To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 

With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss  ? 

30. 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 
Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again  — 

Let  us  now  forget  and  then  recall, 
Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 

And  gather  what  we  let  fall ! 


31. 

What  did  I  say  ?  —  that  a  small  bird  sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 

Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  the  noonday  glare 

You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 


52  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

32. 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 

JTis  better ;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 

33. 

Hither  we  walked,  then,  side  by  side, 
Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 

And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak* 

Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

34. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 
And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 

And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 

And  wonder  at  the  moss. 


35. 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under  — 

Look  through  the  window's  grated  square : 

Nothing  to  see  !  for  fear  of  plunder. 
The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 

As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 


BY    THE    FIRESIDE.  53 

36. 

We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date, 

Then  cross  the  bridge  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again  —  but  wait ! 

37. 

Oh  moment,  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone ; 
The  west  is  tender,  hardly  bright. 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown  — 
One  star,  the  chrysolite  ! 

38. 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well. 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 


Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this ! 


51  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

40. 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her. 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 
And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 

Friends  —  lovers  that  might  have  been. 

41. 

For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time, 
Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 
But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test. 

"  Hold  the  last  fast ! "  says  the  rhyme. 

42. 

For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend  ! 
But  a  last  leaf —  fear  to  touch. 


43. 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind  —  (best  chance  of  all !) 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall ! 


BY    TLIK    FIRESIDE.  «>•'> 

44. 

Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eyes, 
—  That  hail-  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  very  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize ! 


45. 

Oh,  you  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 

46. 
But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 

And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 
If  you  join  two  lives,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 

They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third ; 
One  near  one  is  too  far. 


47. 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast. 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life  ;  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 


56  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

48. 

The  forests  had  done  it ;  there  they  stood  — 
"We  caught  for  a  second  the  powers  at  play  : 

They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  for  good, 
Their  work  was  done  —  we  might  go  or  stay, 

They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

49. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself —  to  wit, 
•  By  its  fruit  —  the  thing  it  does  ! 

50. 

Be  Hate  that  fruit  or  Love  that  fruit, 
It  forwards  the  General  Deed  of  Man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general- plan, 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 

51. 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  hour's  feat, 
There  took  my  station  and  degree. 

So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete 
As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me  — 

One  born  to  love  you,  sweet ! 


BY    THE    FIRESIDE.  57 

52. 

Arid  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 


53. 
So  the  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  more, 

And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  Heaven's  gain  too. 
And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 

When  the  autumn  comes  :  which  I  mean  to  do 
One  day,  as  I  said  before. 


ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

1. 

MY  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou 
Who  art  all  truth  and  who  dost  love  me  now 

As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thy  voice  breaks  to  say  — 
Should'st  love  so  truly  and  could'st  love  me  still 
A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love  its  will, 

Would  death  that  leads  me  from  thee  brook  delay ! 

2. 

I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Would  never  let  mine  go,  thy  heart  withstand 

The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  should  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone  ? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none  ? 

Never,  I  know  !  Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 

3. 

Oh,  I  should  fade  —  'tis  willed  so !  might  I  save, 
Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 


ANY:  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND.  59 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  precious  too. 
It  is  not  to  be  granted.     But  the  soul 
\Vhence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  whole  ; 

Vainly  the  flesh  fades  —  soul  makes  all  things  new. 

4. 

And  'twould  not  be  because  my  eye  grew  dim 
Thou  could'st  not  find  the  love  there,  thanks  to  Him 

Who  never  is  dishonoured  in  the  spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and  bade 
Remember  whence  it  sprang  nor  be  afraid 

While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the  rest  grow  dark. 

5. 

So,  how  thou  would'st  be  perfect,  white  and  clean 
Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  demesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by  ! 
Oh,  three-parts  through  the  worst  of  life's  abyss, 
What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after  this, 

Could'st  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain  the  sky ! 

6. 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 

That,  disengage  oui  hands  and  thou  wilt  sink 

Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very  deed  ? 
I  know  that  nature  !     Pass  a  festive  day 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echo  speed. 


GO  ANY    WIFE    TO    ANY    HUSBAND. 

7. 

Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where  it  fell ; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is  well, 

For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man  best : 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one  tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so  soon 

With  thee  would  such  things  fade  as  with  the  rest. 


I  seem  to  see !  we  meet  and  part :  'tis  brief : 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf, 

The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the  rank  ; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall  — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a  call ; 

And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour 's  to  thank. 

9. 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through  years  was  fixed, 
Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed, 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me  — wilt  thou  dare 
Say  to  tliy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
"  Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride, 

Chance  cannot  change  that  love,  nor  time  impair. 

10. 

"  So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that 's  left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller,  of  my  sun  bereft, 

Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking  the  same, 


ANY    WIFE    TO    ANY    HUSBAND.  Gl 

The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and  gone  ? 
—  Where  was  it  till  the  sunset  ?  where  anon 
It  will  be  at  the  sunrise  !  what 's  to  blame  ?  " 

11. 

Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee  ?  canst  thou  take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's  sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam  ? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the  strong  ? 

Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones  doze  and  dream 

12. 

"  —  Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces !  Is  it  true," 

Thou  'It  ask,  "  some  eyes  are  beautiful  and  new  ? 

Some  hair, — how  can  one  choose  "but  grasp  such  wealth? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to  lips 
Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose  cup  there  slips 

The  dew-drop  out  of,  must  it  be  by  stealth  ? 

13. 

"  It  cannot  change  the  love  kept  still  for  Her, 
Much  more  than,  such  a  picture  to  prefer 

Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare  side. 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she  possessed, 
\Tet  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest 

A  man  looks.     Once  more,  what  is  there  to  chide  ?  * 


62  AN?    WIFE    TO    ANY    HUSBAND. 

14. 

So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and  watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach 

Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from  me  — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me  proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 

Thy  man's  truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God  see  ! 

15. 

Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt !     Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces  —  disentranced  — 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more, 
Reissue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint  — 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print 

Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore  ! 

16. 

Recoin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend,  — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art,  and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless,  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee ! 

17. 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all  ? 

Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal, 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow  ? 


ANY    WIFE    TO    AXY    HUSBAND.  63 

Why  need  the  other  women  know  so  raueh 
And  talk  together,  "  Such  the  look  and  such 
The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now  !  * 

18. 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee !     Should  I  find 
Such  hardship  in  the  few  years  left  behind, 

If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and  go 
Into  thy  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 

The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I  know  ! 

19. 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more 

By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn  at  first, 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the  low  door-way's  lintel.     That  were  cause 

For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst,  if  I  durst ! 

20. 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two. 
What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst  not  do, 

Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride  ? 
I  '11  say  then,  here 's  a  trial  and  a  task  — 
Is  it  to  bear  ?  —  if  easy,  I  '11  not  ask  — 

Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in  thy  pride. 


64  ANY    WIFE    TO    ANY    HUSH  AND. 

21. 

Pride  ?  —  when  those  eyes  forestall  the  life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through !  —  when  I  find, 

Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all  of  thee  ! 
What  did  I  fear  ?  Thy  love  shall  hold  me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 

And  I  wake  saved.  —  And  yet,  it  will  not  be  ! 


AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING    THE 

STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE  OF  KARSHISH,  THE 
ARAB  PHYSICIAN. 

KARSHISH,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs. 
The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 
(This  man's-flesh  He  hath  admirably  made, 
Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 
To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 
That  puff  of  vapour  from  His  mouth,  man's  soul) 
—  To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 
Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 
Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 
Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain, 
Whereby  the  wily  vapour  fain  would  slip 
Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, — 
And  aptest  in  contrivance,  under  God, 
To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such  :  — 
The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 
Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone  —  rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 
(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 
And  write th  now  the  twenty-second  time. 
5 


C6  AN    EPISTLK. 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho, 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labour  unrepaid  ? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumours  of  a  marching  hitherward  — 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear ; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls : 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy, 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.     Thou  laughest  here ! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 
And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly,  bold  to  say, 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of:  there 's  a  spider  here 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back ; 
Take  five  and  drop  them  ...  but  who  knows  his  mind, 
The  Syrian  run-a-gate  I  trust  this  to  ? 


AN    EPISTLE. 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 

Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 

Gather  what  most  deserves  and  give  thee  all  — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judea's  gum-tragacanth 

Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 

Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 

In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy  — 

Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar  — 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay  :  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price  — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal  ? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
"What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang ! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness  —  or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him  — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth. 
So,  pardon  if —  (lest  presently  I  lose 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight  —  for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth  ? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 
Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all. 


67 


68  AN    EPISTLE. 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania  —  subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 
Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days. 
When  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcisation,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing  out-breaking  all  at  once 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed,  — 
But,  flinging,  so  to  speak,  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  pleased  to  write 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 
So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 
(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 
Attaineth  to  erase  the  fancy-scrawls 
Which  the  returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 
That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first  —  the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 
That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 
That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 
By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe  : 
—  'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "  Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 
"  Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 
Not  so  this  figment !  —  not,  that  such  a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 
Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 
As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones  and  all ! 
For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 
The  man  —  it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 


AN    EPISTLE. 

Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 

As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 

Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days  sleep  ! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all  ? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 

To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke, 

Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,  —  told  the  case,  — 

He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 

But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed :  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that 's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 

Should  find  a  treasure,  can  he  use  the  same 

With  straightened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved  small, 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 

—  That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand. 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust  ? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth  — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when 's  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times  ? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one. 


70  AN     KP1STLE. 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here  —  we  '11  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say  — 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty  — 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  Heaven. 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of.  a  mule  with  gourds  — 

Tis  one !     Then  take  it  on  the  other  side. 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact  —  he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness  — 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results  ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes  ! 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death,  —  why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  his  daily  craft  — 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance,  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  start  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like  !  demand 

The  reason  why  —  "  'tis  but  a  word,"  object  — 


AN    EPISTLE  71 

A  gesture  "  —  he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 
Looked  at  us,  dost  thou  mind,  when  being  young 
We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 
Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 
Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 
All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 
Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 
Thrown  o'er  your  heads  from  under  which  ye  both 
Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 
Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know  ! 
He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life  — 
(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 
Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 
Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 
Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet  — 
The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life  ! 
The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this  — 
His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 
So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 
Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 
Proclaiming  what  is  Right  and  Wrong  across  — 
And  not  along  —  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze  — 
"  It  should  be  "  balked  by  "  here  it  cannot  be." 
And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 
As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 
His  sage  that  bade  him  "  Rise  "  and  he  did  rise. 
Something  —  a  word,  a  tick  of  the  blood  within 
Admonishes  —  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 


i'l  AN    EPISTLE. 

To  ashes,  that  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread  — • 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  Heavenly  will  — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  will  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth  : 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be  — 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do. 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbour  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction  ?  ardent  as  he  is  — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why  still  the  old 

"  Be  it  as  God  please  "  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should  — 

"  How,  beast,"  said  I,  "  this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once  ?  " 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 


AN    EPISTLE.  73 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Abie  and  weak  —  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds  —  how  say  I  ?  flowers  of  the  field  — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb  : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin  — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed. 

As  when  in  certain  travels  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure  —  and  I  must  hold  my  peace  ! 

Thou  wilt  object  —  why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits  ? 
Alas  !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused,  —  our  learning's  fate,  —  of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 


74  AN    EPISTLE. 

That  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 

Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people  —  that 's  theii  wont  — 

On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help  — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ?     That's  their  way  ! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies  : 

But  take  one  —  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 

In  mere  respect  to  any  good  man's  fame  ! 

(And  after  all  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad  —  should  we  count  on  what  he  says  ? 

Perhaps  not  —  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 

'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer  then, 

As  —  God  forgive  me  —  who  but  God  himself, 

Creator  and  Sustainer  of  the  world, 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile  ! 

—  'Sayeth  that  such  an  One  was  born  and  lived, 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house. 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 

And  yet  was  .  .  .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

•In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith  —  but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith  ? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark  ? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange  ! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case. 


AN    EPISTLE.  75 

Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 

Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth. 

Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 

Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 

And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 

Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 

Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus  — 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 

Like  an  old  lion's  cheek-teeth.     Out  there  came 

A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 

Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing : 

Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 

In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 

The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 

Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 

To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  —  he  may  lose, 

Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 

Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 

For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine, 

Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib ;  dost  thou  think  ? 
So,  the  All- Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too  — • 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "  0  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself. 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine, 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  Myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee  !  " 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so  :  it  is  strange. 


MESMERISM. 

1. 

ALL  I  believed  is  true ! 

I  am  able  yet 

All  I  want  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new : 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you  ? 

2. 

If  at  night,  when  doors  are  shut, 
And  the  wood-worm  picks, 
And  the  death-watch  ticks, 
And  the  bar  has  a  flag  of  smut, 
And  a  cat 's  in  the  water-butt  — 

3. 

And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 
And  the  house-beams  groan, 
And  a  foot  unknown 


MESMERISM.  77 

Is  surmised  on  the  garret-stairs, 
And  the  locks  slip  unawares  — 

4. 

And  the  spider,  to  serve  his  ends, 

By  a  sudden  thread, 

Arms  and  legs  outspread, 
On  the  table's  midst  descends, 
Comes  to  find,  God  knows  what  friends  !  — 

5. 

If  since  eve  drew  in,  I  say, 

I  have  sate  and  brought 

(So  to  speak)  my  thought 
To  bear  on  the  woman  away, 
Till  I  felt  my  hair  turn  gray  — 

6. 

Till  I  seemed  to  have  and  hold 

In  the  vacancy 

'Twixt  the  wall  and  me, 
From  the  hair-plait's  chestnut-gold 
To  the  foot  in  its  muslin  fold  — 

7. 

Have  and  hold,  then  and  there, 
Her,  from  head  to  foot, 
Breathing  and  mute, 


78  MESMERISM. 

Passive  and  yet  aware, 

In  the  grasp  of  my  steady  stare  — 

8. 

Hold  and  have,  there  and  then, 
All  her  body  and  soul 
That  completes  my  Whole, 
All  that  women  add  to  men, 
In  the  clutch  of  my  steady  ken  — 

9. 

Having  and  holding,  till 

I  imprint  her  fast 

On  the  void  at  last 
As  the  sun  does  whom  he  will 
By  the  calotypist's  skill  — 

10. 

Then,  —  if  my  heart's  strength  serve, 
And  through  all  and  each 
Of  the  veils  I  reach 

To  her  soul  and  never  swerve, 

Knitting  an  iron  nerve  — 

11. 

Commanding  that  to  advance 
And  inform  the  shape 
Which  has  made  escape 


MKS.MEIIISM.  79 


And  before  my  countenance 
Answers  me  glance  for  glance  — 

12. 

I,  still  with  a  gesture  fit 
Of  my  hands  that  best 
Do  my  soul's  behest, 
Pointing  the  power  from  it, 
While  myself  do  steadfast  sit  — 

13. 

Steadfast  and  still  the  same 

On  my  object  bent 

While  the  hands  give  vent 
To  my  ardour  and  my  aim 
And  break  into  very  flame  — 

14. 

Then,  I  reach,  I  must  believe, 
Not  her  soul  in  vain, 
For  to  me  again 
It  reaches,  and  past  retrieve 
Is  wound  in  the  toils  I  weave  — 

15- 

And  must  follow  as  I  require, 
As  befits  a  thrall, 
Bringing  flesh  and  all, 


80  MESMERISM. 

Essence  and  earth-attire, 

To  the  source  of  the  tractile  fire  — 

16. 

Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 
With  a  growing  weight 
Seems  to  suffocate 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine  — 

17. 

Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 
On  to  the  maze 
Of  the  wild  wood- ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  or  right 
From  the  pathway,  blind  with  sight  - 

18. 

Making  thro'  rain  and  wind 
O'er  the  broken  shrubs, 
'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  still  composed  strong  mind, 
Not  a  care  for  the  world  behind  — 

19; 

Swifter  and  still  more  swift, 
As  the  crowding  peace 
Doth  to  joy  increase 
In  the  wide  blind  eyes  uplift, 
Thro'  the  darkness  and  the  drift ! 


MESMERISM.  81 

20. 

While  I  —  to  the  shape,  I  too 

Feel  my  soul  dilate 

Nor  a  whit  abate 
And  relax  not  a  gesture  due 
As  I  see  my  belief  come  true  — 

21. 

For  there  !  have  I  drawn  or  no 

Life  to  that  lip  ? 

Do  my  fingers  dip 
In  a  flame  which  again  they  throw 
On  the  cheek  that  breaks  a-glow  ? 

22. 

Ha !  was  the  hair  so  first  ? 

What,  unfilleted, 

Made  alive,  and  spread 
Through  the  void  with  a  rich  outburst, 
Chestnut  gold-interspersed ! 

23. 

Like  the  doors  of  a  casket-shrine, 

See,  on  either  side, 

Her  two  arms  divide 
Till  the  heart  betwixt  makes  sign, 
Take  me,  for  I  am  thine  1 
6 


82  "    MESMERISM. 

24. 

Now  —  now  —  the  door  is  heard 
Hark !  the  stairs  and  near  — - 
Nearer  —  and  here  — 
Now  !  and  at  call  the  third 
She  enters  without  a  word. 

25. 

On  doth  she  march  and  on 
To  the  fancied  shape  — 
It  is  past  escape 

Herself,  now  —  the  dream  is  done 
And  the  shadow  and  she  are  one. 


First  I  will  pray.     Do  Thou 
That  ownest  the  soul, 
Yet  wilt  grant  controul 
To  another  nor  disallow 
For  a  tune,  restrain  me  now  I 

27. 

I  admonish  me  while  I  may, 
Not  to  squander  guilt, 
Since  require  Thou  wilt 

At  my  hand  its  price  one  day ! 

What  the  price  is,  who  can  say  ? 


A   SERENADE   AT   THE    VILLA. 

1. 

THAT  was  I,  you  heard  last  night 
"When  there  rose  no  moon  at  all, 

Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 
Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small : 

Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 


Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 

Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm. 

When  the  crickets  stopped  their  cry, 
When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 

You  heard  music ;  that  was  I. 


Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof: 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again, 

Lightning !  —  where  it  broke  the  roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 


84  A  S£R UN-AD K  AT  THE  VILLA. 

4. 

What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 
O  my  love,  my  all,  my  one  ! 

Singing  helped  the  verses  best, 

And  when  singing's  best  was  done, 

To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest. 


5. 

So  wore  night ;  the  east  was  gray, 

White  the  broad-faced  hemlock  flowers ; 

Soon  would  come  another  day  ; 
Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 

Found  me,  I  had  past  away. 


What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 
Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well  ? 

Say,  this  struck  you  —  "  When  life  gropes 
Feebly  for  the  path  where  fell 

Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes, 


7. 

"  One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be 
To  secure  my  steps  from  wrong  ; 

One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 
Patient  through  the  watches  long, 

Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 


A    SERENADE    AT    THE    VILLA.  85 


Never  e ay  —  as  something  bodes  — 
"  So  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse  ! 

When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads, 
Better  the  task-master's  curse 

Than  such  music  on  the  roads ! 


u  When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 
Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent 

Any  star,  the  smallest  one, 

While  some  drops,  where  lightning  went, 

Show  the  final  storm  begun  — 


10. 

"  When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot, 
When  the  garden-voices  fail 

In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot, — 
Shall  another  voice  avail, 

That  shape  be  where  those  are  not  ? 


11. 

"  Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease 
Proffering  its  help  uncouth  ? 

Can't  one  even  die  in  peace  ? 

As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  youth, 

Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees  ?  " 


86  A    SERENADE    AT    THE    VILLA. 

12. 

Oh,  how  dark  your  villa  was, 
Windows  fast  and  obdurate  ! 

How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 
Where  I  stood  —  the  iron  gate 

Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass  ! 


MY  STAK. 

ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star, 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue, 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird,  —  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled ; 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me  ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS. 


OF  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

2. 

I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course  — 

For,  what  was  his  force  ? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate  — 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not  curse, 

As  if  lots  might  be  worse. 


"  Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand  ! 

For  obscurity  helps  him  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 


INSTANS    TKYANNUS.  89 

All  in  vain !  gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue. 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth  — 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth  ! 

4. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  if  I  press  — 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize  — 

No  such  booty  as  these  ! 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me  in  person  or  pelf 

What  he  owes  me  himself. 

No  !  I  could  not  but  smile  through  my  chafe  — 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

—  Through  minuteness,  to  wit. 

.   5. 

Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face, 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain  — 

And,  no,  I  admonished  myself, 


90  INSTANS    TYUANNUS. 

"  Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat  ? 

The  gravamen 's  in  that  ! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot, 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate  ! 

But  the  Small  is  the  Great 

If  it  vexes  you,  —  that  is  the  thing  ! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  King  ? 

Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,  'tis  well  worth ! " 

6. 

So  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  —  with  never  a  break 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake  ; 

Over-head,  did  my  thunders  combine 

With  my  under-ground  mine : 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 

To  enjoy  the  event. 

7. 

When  sudden  .  .  .  how  think  ye,  the  end  ? 

Did  I  say  "  without  friend  ?  " 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 


INSTANS    TYRANNUS.  91 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest ! 

Do  you  see  ?  just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  Go<*\  skirts,  and  prayed  ! 

—  So,  /  W3"  pfraid  ! 


A    PKETTY    WOMAN. 

1. 

THAT  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye 

Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers  ! 


To  think  men  cannot  take  you,  Sweet, 

Ajnd  enfold  you, 

Ay,  and  hold  you, 
And  so  keep  you  what  they  make  you,  Sweet ! 

3. 

You  like  us  for  a  glance,  you  know  — 

For  a  word's  sake, 

Or  a  sword's  sake, 
All  *s  the  same,  whate'er  the  chance,  you  know 


A    PRETTY    WOMAN.  93 

4. 


And  in  turn  we  make  you  ours,  we  say  — 

You  and  youth  too, 

Eyes  and  mouth  too, 
All  the  face  composed  of  flowers,  we  say. 

5. 

All's  our  own,  to  make  the  most  of,  Sweet  — 

Sing  and  say  for, 

Watch  and  pray  for, 
Keep  a  secret  or  go  boast  of,  Sweet. 

6. 

But  for  loving,  why,  you  would  not,  Sweet, 

Though  we  prayed  you, 

Paid  you,  brayed  you 
In  a  mortar  —  for  you  could  not,  Sweet. 

7. 

So,  we  leave  the  sweet  face  fondly  there  -— 

Be  its  beauty 

Its  sole  duty ! 
Let  all  hope  of  grace  beyond,  lie  there  ! 


And  while  the  face  lies  quiet  there, 

Who  shall  wonder 

That  I  ponder 
A  conclusion  ?     I  will  try  it  there. 


9-4  A    PRETTY    WOMAN. 


As,  —  why  must  onfe,  for  the  love  forgone, 

Scout  mere  liking  ? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth,  —  the  heaven,  we  look  above  for,  gone  ! 

10. 

Why  with  beauty,  needs  there  money  be  — 

Love  with  liking  ? 

Crush  the  fly-king 
In  his  gauze,  because  no  honey  bee  ? 

11. 

May  not  liking  be  so  simple-sweet, 

If  love  grew  there 

'Twould  undo  there 
All  that  breaks  the  cheek  to  dimples  sweet  ? 

12. 

Is  the  creature  too  imperfect,  say  ? 

Would  you  mend  it 

And  so  end  it  ? 
Since  not  all  addition  perfects  aye  ! 

13. 

Or  is  it  of  its  kind,  perhaps, 

Just  perfection  — 

Whence,  rejection 
Of  a  grace  not  to  its  mind,  perhaps? 


A    PRETTY    WOMAN.  95 

14. 

Shall  we  burn  up,  tread  that  face  at  once 

Into  tinder, 

And  so  hinder 
Sparks  from  kindling  all  the  place  at  once  ? 

15. 

Or  else  kiss  away  one's  soul  on  her  ? 

Your  love-fancies  !  — 

A  sick  man  sees 
Truer,  when  his  hot  eyes  roll  on  her ! 

16. 

Thus  the  craftsman  thinks  to  grace  the  rose,  — 

Plucks  a  mould-flower 

For  his  gold  flower, 
Uses  fine  things  that  efface  the  rose. 

17. 

Rosy  rubies  make  its  cup  more  rose, 

Precious  metals 

Ape  the  petals,  — 
Last,  some  old  king  locks  it  up,  morose  ! 

18. 
Then,  how  grace  a  rose  ?  I  know  a  way  ! 

Leave  it  rather. 

Must  you  gather  ? 
Smell,  kiss,  wear  it  —  at  last,  throw  away  ! 


«  CHILDE  EOLAM)  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 
CAME." 

(See  Edgar's  Song  in  •'  LEAK.") 

1. 

MY  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

2. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  that  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road  ?     I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  '  gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 


If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 


"CIIILDK    ROLAND    TO    THE    DARK    TOWER    CAMK."    97 

Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed ;  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  should  he. 

4. 

For.  what  with  my  whole  world- wide  wandering, 

What  with  my  search  drawn  out  thro'  years,  my  hope 
Dwindled  info  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring,  — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

5. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
Freelier  outside,  ("  since  all  is  o'er  "  he  saith, 
"  And  the  blow  fall'n  no  grieving  can  amend  ") 

6. 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves,  — 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 
7 


98  "CIIILDE    ROLAND 

7. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "  The  Band  "  —  to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps  —  that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should  I  be  fit. 

8. 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  pluiii  catch  its  estray. 


For  mark  !  no  sooner  was  5  fpirly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  A  pa^-e  or  two, 
Than  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 
To  the  safe  road,  'twas  gone  !  gray  nlain  aUsr<H»*  A 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bou^d. 
I  might  go  on ;  nought  else  remained  to  \t\ 

10. 

So  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature  ;  nothing  throve  : 
For  flowers  —  as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove ! 


TO    THE    DARK    TOWKR    CAME."  99 

But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You  'd  think  :  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure-trove. 


11.     zt;.- 
No  !  penury,  inertness,  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.     "  See 
Or  shut  your  eyes  "  —  said  Nature  peevishly  — 
"  It  nothing  skills  :  I  cannot  help  my  case  : 
The  Judgment's  fire  alone  can  cure  this  place, 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 


12. 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 

Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped  —  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes  and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves  —  bruised  as  to  baulk 
All  hope  of  greenness  ?  'tis  a  brute  must  walk 
Fashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

13. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 

In  leprosy  —  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked"  kneaded  up  with  blood. 

One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 

Stood  stupefied,  however  he  carne  there  — 
Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud  ! 


100  "  CHILDE    ROLAND 

14. 

Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  all  I  know 

With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped  neck  a-stniin, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane. 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe  : 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  — 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

15. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterwards  —  the  soldier's  art : 
One  taste  of  the  old  times  sets  all  to  rights ! 

16. 

Not  it !  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 
Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas  !  one  night's  disgrace  ! 
Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

17. 

Giles,  then,  the  soul  of  honour  —  there  he  stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 


TO    THE    DARK    TOWER 

\Yhat  lionest  men  should  dare  (hVsaid) ..hef  durst JV"  ^ 
Good  —  but  the  scene  shifts  —  faugh  !  what  hangman's 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment  ?  his  own  hands  [hands 

Read  it     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst ! 

18. 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that  — 
Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again. 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 

Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat  ? 

I  asked  :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their  train. 

19. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms  — 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof  —  to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes. 

20. 

So,  petty  yet  so  spiteful !  all  along 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it ; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng  : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit. 


ros 


CIIILDE    ROLAND 


21. 

Which,  while  I  forded,  —  good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard ! 

—  It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh  !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

22. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage ! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash  ?  toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  redhot  iron  cage  — 

23. 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 

What  kept  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to  choose  ? 

No  foot-print  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it :  mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 

Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

24. 

And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on  —  why,  there  ! 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow  fit  to  reel 


TO  THE  DA  UK  TOWER  CAME/'          103 

Men's  bodies  out  like  silk  ?  with  all  the  air 
Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel . 

25. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with  ;  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 

Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 

Changes  and  off  he  goes  !)  within  a  rood,_ 

Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth. 

26. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  coloured  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils  ; 

Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 

Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  run 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

27. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end  ! 

Nought  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  nought, 
To  point  my  footstep  further  !     At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 
That  brushed  my  cap — perchance  the  guide  I  sought 


104  "  CI1JLDE    ROLAND 

28. 

For  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew 

'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 

All  round  to  mountains  —  with  such  name  to  grac€ 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stol'n  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me,  —  solve  it,  you ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  plainer  case. 

29. 
Yet  half  T  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when  — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 
Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 

As  when  a  trap  shuts  —  you  're  inside  the  den ! 

30. 

JBurningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 

This  was  the  place  !  those  two  hills  on  the  right  £} 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight 

While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain  .  .  .  Dunce, 

Foolj.tp  be  dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 
After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight ! 

31. 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself? 
The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 


TO    THE    DARK    TOWEIl    CAME."  105 

In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

32. 

Not  see?  because  of  night  perhaps  ?  —  fWhy,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft : 
The  hills  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay(-£^y 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay,  — 

"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature  —  to  the  heft !  " 

33. 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere^  ?  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears, 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 

How  such  an  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 

And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost !  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 

34. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill-sides  — jngi- 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture  !  in  a  sheet  of  flame 

I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 

Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set,^ 
And  blew.    "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came.' 


RESPECTABILITY. 


DEAR,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deigned  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you  both, 
Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 
4.m  sponsor  for  you  —  live  in  peace  ! "  — 
iow  many  precious  months  and  years 

Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast, 
Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 


How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 
With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 
And  women  models  of  their  sex, 

Society's  true  ornament,  — 

Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 

Thro'  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine$ 
And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss  ? 


RESPECTABILITY.  107 

3. 

I  know  !  the  world  proscribes  not  love  ; 

Allows  my  finger  to  caress 

Your  lip's  contour  and  downiness, 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 
The  world's  good  word  !  —  the  Institute  ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 

Eh  ?  down  the  court  three  lampions  flare  — 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 


A   LTGHT   WOMAN. 

1. 

So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 

Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three  ?  — — 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me  ? 

2. 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 

And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet, 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 

3. 

When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him 

To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils, 
The  hundredth,  for  a  whim ! 

4. 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 

How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 
AJI  eagle  's  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 

Though  she  snaps  at  the  wren  instead  ! 


A    LIGHT    WOMAN.  109 

5. 

So  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need, 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 

6. 

The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world, 
The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 

—  You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled  ? 
Patience,  a  moment's  space  ! 


For  see  —  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white  ; 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk : 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night, 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 

8. 

And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief: 

"  Though  I  love  her  —  that  he  comprehends  — 
One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love,  in  chief) 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends  ! " 


And  she,  —  she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 
As  a  pear  hung  basking  over  a  wall ; 

Just  a  touch  to  try  and  off  it  came  ; 
'Tis  mine,  —  can  I  let  it  fall  ? 


110  A    LIGHT    WOMAN. 

10. 

With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that 's  the  worst ! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist  ? 
'Twas  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies'  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 

11. 

And  I,  —  what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see  — 
What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess. 

What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me  ? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

12. 

'Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own. 

5Tet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  ! 

13. 

One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth ; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true : 
But  suppose  she  says,  —  never  mind  that  youth  — 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you  ? 

14. 

Well,  any  how,  here  the  story  stays, 

So  far  at  least  as  I  understand ; 
And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays, 

Plere  's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand ! 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

THERE  's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  the  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  furthest  window  facing  the  east 

Asked,  u  Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air  ?  " 

The  brides-maids'  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand  — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  «  The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Dr.ke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 


112  TIIK    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST. 

Gay  lie  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back  —  "  Who  is  she  ?  " 

—  "A  Bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  laid  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure  — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure  — 
Which  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man,  — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can  ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes,  — 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

As  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  Palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite ! 


THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST. 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

(The  Duke  with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 

Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 

At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  .subdued 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor  — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

8 


114  THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  east 
She  mi";ht  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 


Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride  — 
u  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice." 
So  replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied  • 

"  If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  Paradise  ! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

u  'Tis  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 

And  I  save  my  soul  —  but  not  to-morrow  "  — 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim)  - 
"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST.   .       ] 

u  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know  — 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing  and  sleep. 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "  Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "  'Twas  a  very  funeral 

Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours,  — 

A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall ! 

"  What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers. 

And  let  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers  ? 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  u  Too  much  favour  for  me  so  mean ! 


116          THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

"  AJas !  my  lady  leaves  the  south. 

Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 

Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth. 

"  No  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 

If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 

To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring  — 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here  ! " 


And  then  to  himself  —  "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool  — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  his  king ! 

"  Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool  — 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France, 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance  -— 

u  For  I  ride  —  what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

Mny  glance  at  its  window  —  well  betide  J " 


THE    STATUE    AND    TIIK    UUST.  117 

So  said,  so  done  :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 
But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth  — 
The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter's  dearth 
By  winter's  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose  : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 
Were  a  simple  policy  —  best  wait, 
lose  no  friends  and  gain  no  foes. 


118  THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST. 

Meanwhile,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  lean  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate  ! 

And  she  —  she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook. 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  it  all  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

Weeks  grew  months,  years  —  gleam  by  gleam 

The  glory  dropped  from  youth  and  love, 

And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream. 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above,  — 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked,  — 
And  wondered  wrho  the  woman  was, 
So  hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 


THE    STATUE    A\D    THE    BUST.  110 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass  — 
44  Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
**  Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

•*  Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  moulds  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 


B 


"  Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square  ! 

"  And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle  — 

"  To  say,  —  '  what  matters  at  the  end  ? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm, 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm  — 


120  THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST. 

Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine  — 

(With,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face  — 

Eying  ever  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick -turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  passes  by  — ) 

The  Duke  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 

In  Florence,  "  So,  my  dream  escapes  !  * 

Will  its  record  stay  ?  "     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  fashioner  of  shapes  — 

"  Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 

Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

"  John  of  Douay  shall  work  my  plan, 
Mould  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive  —  (the  subtle  artisan  !) 


THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUS'l.  121 

**  In  the  very  square  I  cross  so  oft ! 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft 

"  While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  are  brave  in  bronze  — 
Admire  and  say,  '  When  he  was  alive, 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once  ! ' 

"  And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  meanwhile  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  indolence  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So !  while  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Surely  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  His, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  cut  his  way  thro'  the  world  to  this. 


2          THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

I  hear  your  reproach  —  "  But  delay  was  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime  ! "  —  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view. 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf  ? 
Where  a  button  goes,  'twere  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham. 

As  well  the  counter  as  com,  I  submit, 

When  your  table 's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  truly,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play  —  is  my  principle  ! 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 


THE    STATUE    AND    THE    BUST.  125 

Was,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  crime,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue,  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you  ?     De  te,  fabula  f 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 

1. 

ROOM  after  room, 

I  hunt  the  house  through 

We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her, 

Next  time,  herself !  —  not  the  trouble  behind  her 

Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume  ! 

As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice-wreath  blossomed  anew, — 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

2. 

Yet  the  day  wears, 

And  door  succeeds  door  ; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune  — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 

Still  the  same  chance  !  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 

Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest,  —  Who  cares  ? 

But  'tis  twilight,  you  see,  —  with  such  suites  to  explore, 

Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune  ! 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE. 

ESCAPE  me  ? 
Never  — 
Beloved! 
"While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 
Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear  — 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed  ! 
Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed  — 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  to  begin  again,  — 

So  the  chace  takes  up  one's  life,  that 's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  furthest  bound, 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  drops  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  selfsame  mark, 
I  shape  me  — 
Ever 
Removed ! 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY. 

I  ONLY  knew  one  poet  in  my  life  : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did  : 
The  cloak  that  somewhat  shone  and  showed  the  threads 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 
He  walked  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face, 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 
That  leads  no  whither  ;  now,  they  breathed  themselvea 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time. 
You  'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
nlaking  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 
Against  tirxi  single  tvindow  spared  some  house 
fntaci  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work,  — 
Or  else  surprise  the  ferrel  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks 


HOW    IT    6TUIKF.8    A    CONTEMPORARY.  127 

Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 

He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 

The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 

The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 

That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 

He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 

And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 

And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 

He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 

If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw  ; 

If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note ; 

Yet  stared  at  nobody,  —  they  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  their  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  them  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbour's  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact, 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy, 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew ! 

"We  merely  kept  a  Governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said,  and  acted,  then  went  home. 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King, 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  He  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  His  bedroom  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile !  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of  ...  well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came  — 

Stricken  in  years  a  little,  —  such  a  brow 


128  HOW    IT    STH1KKS    A    CONTKUL'ORAKY. 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under !  —  clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut,  and  coloured,  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising  fate  ? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared 

And  young  C.  got  his  mistress,  —  was  't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all  ? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains  ? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favourites  manifold, 

And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month ; 

Our  city  gets  new  Governors  at  whiles,  — 

But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear. 

Notified  to  this  man  about  the  streets 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?  frowned  our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard  —  "  Beseech  me  not ! 

Too  far  above  my  people,  —  beneath  Me  ! 

I  set  the  watch,  —  how  should  the  people  know  ? 

Forget  them,  keep  Me  all  the  more  in  mind ! " 

Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  Two  ? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least  — 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate  ! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 


HOW    IT    STRIKES    A    CONTEMPORARY.  129 

In  that  new,  stuccoed,  third  house  by  the  bridge, 

Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise  ! 

The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 

Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 

Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 

( Jacynth,  you  're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  cheese 

And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 

Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April !  nine  — 

Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  he. 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  ne  was, 
"Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times  , 
«  St  —  St "  he  'd  whisper,  "  the  Corregidor  !  " 
I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turn, 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue  ! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys  — 
1  was  in  error ;  that  was  not  the  man. 

I'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die, 
And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret's  sides 
And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 
With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 
Here  had  been,  'mark,  the  general-in-chief, 
Thro'  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  deatK 
9 


130  HOW    IT    STRIKES    A    CONTEMPORARY. 

Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 

En  his  old  coat,  and  up  to  his  knees  in  mud, 

Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust,  — 

And  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once ! 

No  further  show  or  need  for  that  old  coat, 

You  are  sure,  for  one  thing  !     Bless  us,  all  the  while 

How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I ! 

A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  tha*t. 

Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse,  —  could  you  ? 

Let 's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

% 

1. 

I  SAID  —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be  • 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave,  —  I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 


My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers, 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing- while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance  — Right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again : 


Io2  THE    LAST    HIDE    TOGETHER. 

My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain. 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ? 


Hush  !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions  —  sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once  —  — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here  !  — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered  —  joy  and  tear  ! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

4. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

AVhat  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry  ? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me  ?  just  as  well 


THE    LAST    RIDE    TOGETHER.  133 

She  might  have  hated,  —  who  can  tell  ? 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell  ? 
And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

5. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  ? 
We  rode  ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought,  All  labour,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  Done  the  Undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me.     Here  we  ride. 

6. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen  ? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There 's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each  ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing  !  what  atones  ? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 


THE    LAST    RIDE    TOGETHER. 


What  does  it  all  mean,  poet  ?  well, 
Your  brain 's  beat  into  rhythm  —  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only  ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much  —  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what 's  best  for  men  ? 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time  — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme  ? 

Sing,  riding 's  a  joy  !     For  me,  I  ride. 

8. 

And  you,  great  sculptor  —  so  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  art,  her  slave, 
And  that 's  your  Venus  —  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you,  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
"  But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end ! " 

I  gave  my  youth  —  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 


Who  knows  what 's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 


THE    LAST    RIDE    TOGETHER.  13 

My  being  ;  had  I  signed  the  bond  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

—  Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?     Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest  — 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  Heaven  seern  best  ? 

Now,  Heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

10. 

And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long ! 
What  if  Heaven  be,  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  Heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride  ? 


THE  PATRIOT. 

AN  OLD  STORY. 
1. 

IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad. 

The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 

A  year  ago  on  this  very  day  ! 

2. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowds  and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folks,  mere  noise  repels  — 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies  ! " 
They  had  answered,  "  And  afterward,  what  else  ?  * 

3. 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun, 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep. 

Nought  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone, 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 


THE    PATRIOT.  137 

4. 

There  's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now  — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set  — 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

5. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind, 
And  1  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


In  such  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"  Thou,  paid  by  the  World,  —  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me  ?  "  God  might  have  questioned  :  but  now  instead 
Tis  God  shall  requite  !  I  am  safer  so. 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

1. 

HIST,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft ! 

Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Ilugues ! 
Answer  the  question  I've  put  you  so  oft  — 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues  ? 
See,  we  're  alone  in  the  loft, 


1,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Ilugues,  the  composer  of  note  — 
Dead,  though,  and  done  with,  this  many  a  year 

Let 's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to  quote, 
Hake  the  world  prick  up  its  ear ! 


See,  the  church  empties  a-pace. 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights  — 
Hallo,  there,  sacristan  !  five  minutes'  grace  ! 


MASTEU     HUCSUKS    OF    SAXE-GOTHA.  J  39 


Here  's  a  crank  pedal  wants  setting  to  rights, 


Baulks  one  of  holding  the  base. 


4. 

See,  our  huge  house  of  the  sounds 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids  the  last  loiterer  back  to  his  bounds 

—  Oh,  you  may  challenge  them,  not  a  response 
Get  the  church  saints  on  their  rounds  ! 

5. 

(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall  doubt  ? 

—  March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 

Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  transept  about, 
Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and  spire, 
Put  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout  — 

6. 

Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just  — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks  rust, 

Rub  the  church  plate,  darn  the  sacrament  lace, 
Clear  the  desk  velvet  of  dust.) 

7. 

Here 's  your  book,  younger  folks  shelve  ! 
Played  I  not  off-hand  and  runningly, 
Just  now,  your  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve  ? 


140  MASTER    IIUGUKS    OF    SAXK-GOTIIA. 

Here's  what  should  strike, —  could  one  handle    it 
Help  the  axe,  give  it  a  helve !  [cunningly. 

8. 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up  and  surveyed 

O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest  of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade. 

9. 

Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak, 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each  cheek 

Like  two  great  breves  as  they  wrote  them  of  yore 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak  ! 

10. 

Sure  you  said  —  "  Good,  the  mere  notes  ! 

Still,  couldst  thou  take  my  intent, 
Know  what  procured  me  our  Company's  votes  — 

Masters  being  lauded  and  sciolists  shent, 
Farted  the  sheep  from  the  goats ! " 

11. 

Well  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch ! 

Quick,  ere  my  candle's  a  snuff 
—  Burnt,  do  you  see  ?  to  its  uttermost  inch  — 


MASTER    HUGUES    OF    SAXE-GOTHA.  14.1 

/  believe  in  you,  but  that 's  not  enough. 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch  ! 

12. 

First  you  deliver  your  phrase 

—  Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 
Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much  praise  — 

Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer  needs  be  : 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways ! 

13. 

Straight  must  a  Third  interpose, 

Volunteer  needlessly  help  — 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in  his  nose, 

So  the  cry 's  open,  the  kennel 's  a-yelp, 
Argument 's  hot  to  the  close  ! 

14. 

One  disertates,  he  is  candid  — 

Two  must  discept,  —  has  distinguished  ! 
Three  helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet  man  did  : 

Four  protests,  Five  makes  a  dart  at  the  thing  wished  — 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied ! 

15. 

One  says  his  say  with  a  difference  — 

More  of  expounding,  explaining  ! 
All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse,  and  vociferance  — 


142  MASTER    HUGUES    OF    SAXE-GOTHA. 

Now  there  's  a  truce,  all 's  subdued,  self-restraining 
Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiffer  hence. 

16. 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive  — 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant  — 
Three  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive  — 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  strepitant  — 
Five  .  .  .  O  Danaides,  O  Sieve  ! 

17. 

Now,  they  ply  axes  and  crowbars  — 

Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's 

Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.     To  what  issue  ? 
Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars  ? 

18. 

Est fuga,  volvitur  rota! 

On  we  drift.     Where  looms  the  dim  port  ? 
One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contribute  their  quota  - 

Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import  - 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha ! 

19. 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 

Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 
All 's  like  ...  it 's  like  ...  for  an  instance  I  'm  trying  . 


MASTER    HUGUES    OF    SAXE-GOTHA.  14* 

There  !  See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying ! 

20 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 

Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 
Till  one  exclaims  —  "  But  where 's  music,  the  dickens  ? 

Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider-web  strengthens, 
Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens  ?  " 

21. 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous. 

Prove  me  such  censure 's  unfounded ! 
Seems  it  surprising  a  lover  grows  jealous  — 

Hopes  'twas  for  something  his  organ-pipes  sounded, 
Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows  ? 

22. 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life  ? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife  ? 

23 

Over  our  heads  Truth  and  Nature  — 
Still  our  life  's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs  weaving  a  new  legislature  — 


144  MASTER    HUGUES    OF    SAXK-C  OTII.Y. 

God's  gold  just  shining  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  Man's  usurp ature ! 

24. 

So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland. 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye,  —  not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  through  our  comments  and  glozes. 

25. 

Ah,  but  traditions,  inventions, 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage) 
So  many  men  with  such  various  intentions 

Down  the  past  ages  must  know  more  than  this  age  I 
Leave  the  web  all  its  dimensions ! 

26. 

Who  thinks  Hugues  wrote  for  the  deaf? 

Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labour  ? 
Better  submit  —  try  again  —  what 's  the  clef  ? 

'Faith,  it 's  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for  tabor  — 
Four  flats  —  the  minor  in  F. 

27. 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger. 

Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose  it  ? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger  — 


MASTER    HU<;UKS    OF    8AXE-GOTHA.  145 

Truth  's  golden  o'er  us  although  we  refuse  it  — 
Nature,  thro'  dust-clouds  we  fling  her  ! 

28. 

Elugues  !  I  advise  med  pcend 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena  ! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  Full-Organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestnna. 

29. 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I  'm  right  there  — 

.  .  .  Lo,  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket ! 
Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light  there  ! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket ! 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  unawares, 
Sweeping  the  church  up  for  first  morning-prayers, 
And  find  a  poor  devil  at  end  of  his  cares 
At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-planked  rat-riddled  stairs  ? 

Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket  ? 


10 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S    APOLOGY. 

No  more  wine  ?  then  we  '11  push  back  chairs  and  talk. 
A  final  glass  for  me,  tho' :  cool,  i'faith  ! 
We  ought  to  have  our  Abbey  back,  you  see. 
It'  s  different,  preaching  in  basilicas, 
And  doing  duty  in  some  masterpiece 
Like  this  of  brother  Pugin's,  bless  his  heart ! 
I  doubt  if  they  're  half  baked,  those  chalk  rosettes, 
Ciphers  and  stucco-twiddlings  everywhere  ; 
It 's  just  like  breathing  in  a  lime-kiln  :  eh  ? 
These  hot  long  ceremonies  of  our  church 
Cost  us  a  little  —  oh,  they  pay  the  price, 
You  take  me  —  amply  pay  it !     Now,  WP  '11  talk. 

So,  you  despise  me,  Mr.  Gigadibs. 
No  deprecation,  —  nay,  I  beg  you,  sir  ! 
Beside  'tis  our  engagement :  don't  you  know, 
I  promised,  if  you  'd  watch  a  dinner  out, 
We  'd  see  truth  dawn  together  ?  —  truth  that  peeps 
Over  the  glass's  edge  when  dinner  's  done, 
And  body  gets  its  sop  and  holds  its  noise 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  147 

And  leaves  soul  free  a  little.     Now's  the  time  — 

'Tis  break  of  day  !     You  do  despise  me  then. 

And  if  I  say,  "  despise  me,"  —  never  fear  — 

I  know  you  do  not  in  a  certain  sense  — 

Not  in  my  arm-chair  for  example  :  here, 

I  well  imagine  you  respect  my  place 

(Status,  entourage,  worldly  circumstance) 

Quite  to  its  value  —  very  much  indeed 

—  Are  up  to  the  protesting  eyes  of  you 

In  pride  at  being  seated  here  for  once  — 

You  '11  turn  it  to  such  capital  account ! 

When  somebody,  through  years  and  years  to  come, 

Hints  of  the  bishop,  —  names  me  —  that 's  enough  — 

"  Blougram  ?  I  knew  him  "  —  (into  it  you  slide) 

"  Dined  with  him  once,  a  Corpus  Christi  Day, 

All  alone,  we  two  —  he  's  a  clever  man  — 

And  after  dinner,  —  why,  the  wine  you  know,  — 

Oh,  there  was  wine,  and  good  !  —  what  with  the  wine  . .  • 

'Faith,  we  began  upon  ah1  sorts  of  talk  ! 

He  's  no  bad  fellow,  Blougram  — he  had-seen 

Something  of  mine  he  relished  —  some  review  — 

He  's  quite  above  their  humbug  in  his  heart, 

Half-said  as  much,  indeed  —  the  thing  's  his  trade  — 

I  warrant,  Blougram  's  skeptical  at  times  — 

How  otherwise  ?     I  liked  him,  I  confess  !  " 

Che  ch'e,  my  dear  sir,  as  we  say  at  Rome, 

Don't  you  protest  now  !     It 's  fair  give  and  take  ; 

You  have  had  your  turn  and  spoken  your  home-truths  — » 

The  hand  's  mine  now,  and  here  you  follow  suit. 


143  BISHOP  JJLOUGKAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Thus  much  conceded,  still  the  first  fact  stays  — 
You  do  despise  me  ;  your  ideal  of  life 
Is  not  the  bishop's  —  you  would  not  be  I  — 
You  would  like  better  to  be  Goethe,  now, 
Or  Buonaparte  —  or,  bless  me,  lower  still, 
Count  D'Orsay,  —  so  you  did  what  you  preferred, 
Spoke  as  you  thought,  and,  as  you  cannot  help, 
Believed  or  disbelieved,  no  matter  what, 
So  long  as  on  that  point,  whate'er  it  was, 
You  loosed  your  mind,  were  whole  and  sole  yourself. 
• —  That,  iny  ideal  never  can  include, 
Upon  that  element  of  truth  and  worth 
Never  be  based  !  for  say  they  make  me  Pope 
(They  can't  —  suppose  it  for  our  argument) 
Why,  there  I  'm  at  my  tether's  end  —  I  've  reached 
My  height,  and  not  a  height  which  pleases  you. 
An  unbelieving  Pope  won't  do,  you  say. 
It 's  like  those  eerie  stories  nurses  tell, 
Of  how  some  actor  played  Death  on  a  stage 
With  pasteboard  crown,  sham  orb,    and  tinselled  dart, 
And  called  himself  the  monarch  of  the  world, 
Then  going  in  the  tire-room  afterward 
Because  the  play  was  done,  to  shift  himself, 
Got  touched  upon  the  sleeve  familiarly 
The  moment  he  had  shut  the  closet  door 
By  Death  himself.     Thus  God  might  touch  a  Pope 
At  unawares,  ask  what  his  baubles  mean, 
And  whose  part  he  presumed  to  play  just  now  ? 
Best  be  yourself,  imperial,  plain  and  true  ! 


BISHOP    BLOUGRAM*S    APOLOGY  149 

So,  drawing  comfortable  breatli  again, 

You  weigh  and  find  whatever  more  or  less 

I  boast  of  my  ideal  realized 

Is  nothing  in  the  balance  when  opposed 

To  your  ideal,  your  grand  simple  life, 

Of  which  you  will  not  realize  one  jot. 

I  am  much,  you  are  nothing ;  you  would  be  aL 

I  would  be  merely  much  —  you  beat  me  there. 

No,  friend,  you  do  not  beat  me,  —  hearken  why 
The  common  problem,  your's,  mine,  every  one'Sj 
Is  not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 
Provided  it  could  be,  —  but,  finding  first 
What  may  be,  then  find  how  to  make  it  fair 
Up  to  our  means  —  a  very  different  thing  ! 
No  abstract  intellectual  plan  of  life 
Quite  irrespective  of  life's  plainest  laws, 
But  one,  a  man,  who  is  man  and  nothing  more, 
May  lead  within  a  world  which  (by  your  leave) 
Is  Rome  or  London  —  not  Fool's-paradise. 
Embellish  Rome,  idealize  away, 
Make  Paradise  of  London  if  you  can, 
You  're  welcome,  nay,  you  're  wise. 

A  simile  ! 

We  mortals  cross  the  ocean  of  this  world 
Each  in  his  average  cabin  of  a  life  — 
The  best 's  not  big,  the  worst  yields  elbow-room. 
Now  for  our  six  months'  voyage  — how  prepare? 


150  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

You  come  on  shipboard  with  a  landsman's  list 

Of  things  lie  calls  convenient  —  so  they  axe  ! 

An  India  screen  is  pretty  furniture, 

A  piano-forte  is  a  fine  resource, 

All  Balzac's  novels  occupy  one  shelf, 

The  new  edition  fifty  volumes  long ; 

And  little  Greek  books  with  the  funny  type 

They  get  up  well  at  Leipsic  fill  the  next  — 

Go  on  !  slabbed  marble,  what  a  bath  it  makes  ! 

And  Parma's  pride,  the  Jerome,  let  us  add ! 

'Twere  pleasant  could  Correggio's  fleeting  glow 

Hang  full  in  face  of  one  where'er  one  roams, 

Since  he  more  than  the  others  brings  with  him 

Italy's  self,  —  the  marvellous  Modenese  ! 

Yet  'twas  not  on  your  list  before,  perhaps. 

—  Alas  !  friend,  here  's  the  agent  ...  is 't  the  name  ? 

The  captain,  or  whoever 's  master  here  — 

Y~ou  see  him  screw  his  face  up ;  what 's  his  cry 

Ere  you  set  foot  on  shipboard  ?     "  Six  feet  square  !  n 

If  you  won't  understand  what  six  feet  mean, 

Compute  and  purchase  stores  accordingly  — 

And  if  in  pique  because  he  overhauls 

Your  Jerome,  piano  and  bath,  you  come  on  board 

Bare  —  why  you  cut  a  figure  at  the  first. 

While  sympathetic  landsmen  see  you  off; 

Not  afterwards,  when,  long  ere  half  seas  o'er, 

You  peep  up  from  your  utterly  naked  boards 

Into  some  snug  and  well-appointed  berth 

Like  mine,  for  instance  (try  the  cooler  jug  — 


BISHOP  BLOUG  RAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Put  back  the  other,  but  don't  jog  the  ice) 

And  mortified  you  mutter  "  Well  and  good  — 

He  sits  enjoying  his  sea-furniture  — 

'Tis  stout  and  proper,  and  there  's  store  of  it, 

Though  I've  the  better  notion,  all  agree, 

Of  fitting  rooms  up  !  hang  the  carpenter, 

Neat  ship-shape  fixings  and  contrivances  — 

I  would  have  brought  my  Jerome,  frame  and  all !  * 

And  meantime  you  bring  nothing  :  never  mind  — 

You  've  proved  your  artist-nature  :  what  you  don't, 

You  might  bring,  so  despise  me,  as  I  say. 

Now  come,  let 's  backward  to  the  starting  place. 
See  my  way  :  we  're  two  college  friends,  suppose  — 
Prepare  together  for  our  voyage,  then, 
Each  note  and  check  the  other  in  his  work,  — 
Here  's  mine,  a  bishop's  outfit  ;  criticize  ! 
What 's  wrong  ?  why  won't  you  be  a  bishop  too  ? 

Why,  first,  you  don't  believe,  you  don't  and  can't, 
(Not  statedly,  that  is,  and  fixedly 
And  absolutely  and  exclusively) 
In  any  revelation  called  divine. 
No  dogmas  nail  your  faith  —  and  what  remains 
But  say  so,  like  the  honest  man  you  are  ? 
First,  therefore,  overhaul  theology  ! 
Nay,  I  too,  not  a  fool,  you  please  to  think, 
Must  find  believing  every  whit  as  hard, 
And  if  I  do  not  frankly  say  as  much, 
The  ugly  consequence  is  clear  enough. 


152  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Now,  wait,  my  friend :  well,  I  do  not  believe  — 
If  you  '11  accept  no  faith  that  is  not  fixed, 
Absolute  and  exclusive,  as  you  say. 
(You  're  wrong  —  I  mean  to  prove  it  in  due  time) 
Meanwhile,  I  know  where  difficulties  lie 
I  could  not,  cannot  solve,  nor  ever  shall, 
So  give  up  hope  accordingly  to  solve  — 
(To  you,  and  over  the  wine.)     Our  dogmas  then 
With  both  of  us,  tho'  in  unlike  degree, 
Missing  full  credence  —  overboard  with  them ! 
I  mean  to  meet  you  on  your  own  premise  — 
Good,  there  go  mine  in  company  with  yours ! 

And  now  what  are  we  ?  unbelievers  both, 
Calm  and  complete,  determinately  fixed 
To-day,  to-morrow,  and  forever,  pray  ? 
You  '11  guarantee  me  that  ?     Not  so,  I  think. 
In  nowise  !  all  we  've  gained  is,  that  belief, 
As  unbelief  before,  shakes  us  by  fits, 
Confounds  us  like  its  predecessor.     Where 's 
The  gain  ?  how  can  we  guard  our  unbelief, 
Make  it  bear  fruit  to  us  ?  —  the  problem  here. 
Just  when  we  are  safest,  there 's  a  sunset-touch, 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  some  one's  death, 
A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides, — 
And  that 's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  nature's  self, 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul, 
Take  hands  and  dance  there,  a  fantastic  ring, 


BISHOP    BLOUGRAUS    APOLOGY.  1 

Round  the  ancient  idol,  on  his  base  again,  — 
The  grand  Perhaps  !  we  look  on  helplessly,  — 
There  the  old  misgivings,  crooked  questions  are  — 
This  good  God,  —  what  he  could  do,  if  he  would, 
Would,  if  he  could  —  then  must  have  done  long  since 
If  so,  when,  where,  and  how  ?  some  way  must  be,  — 
Once  feel  about,  and  soon  or  late  you  hit 
Some  sense,  in  which  it  might  be,  after  all. 
Why  not,  "  The  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life  ?" 

—  That  way 

Over  the  mountain,  which  who  stands  upon 
Is  apt  to  doubt  if  it 's  indeed  a  road  ; 
While  if  he  views  it  from  the  waste  itself, 
Up  goes  the  line  there,  plain  from  base  to  brow, 
Not  vague,  mistakable !  what 's  a  break  or  two 
Seen  from  the  unbroken  desert  either  side? 
And  then  (to  bring  in  fresh  philosophy) 
What  if  the  breaks  themselves  should  prove  at  last 
The  most  consummate  of  contrivances 
To  train  a  man's  eye,  teach  him  what  is  faith,  — 
And  so  we  stumble  at  truth's  very  test  ? 
What  have  we  gained  then  by  our  unbelief 
But  a  life  of  doubt  diversified  by  faith, 
For  one  of  faith  diversified  by  doubt. 
We  called  the  chess-board  white,  —  we  call  it  black. 

"  Well,"  you  rejoin,  "  the  end 's  no  worse,  at  least, 
We  've  reason  for  both  colours  on  the  board. 


154  BISHOP  BLoud RAM'S  APOLOGY-. 

Why  not  confess,  then,  where  I  drop  the  faith 
And  you  the  doubt,  that  I  'm  as  right  as  you  ?" 

Because,  friend,  in  the  next  place,  this  being  so, 
And  both  tilings  even,  —  faith  and  unbelief 
Left  to  a  man's  choice,  —  we  '11  proceed  a  step, 
Returning  to  our  image,  which  I  like. 

A  man's  choice,  yes  —  but  a  cabin-passenger's  — 
The  man  made  for  the  special  life  of  the  world  — 
Do  you  forget  him  ?     I  remember  though  ! 
Consult  our  ship's  conditions  and  you  find 
One  and  but  one  choice  suitable  to  all, 
The  choice  that  you  unluckily  prefer, 
Turning  things  topsy-turvy  —  they  or  it 
Going  to  the  ground.     Belief  or  unbelief 
Bears  upon  life,  determines  its  whole  course, 
Begins  at  its  beginning.     See  the  world 
Such  as  it  is,  —  you  made  it  not,  nor  I ; 
I  mean  to  take  it  as  it  is,  —  and  you 
Not  so  you  '11  take  it,  —  though  you  get  nought  else. 
I  know  the  special  kind  of  life  I  like, 
What  suits  the  most  my  idiosyncrasy, 
Brings  out  the  best  of  me  and  bears  me  fruit 
In  power,  peace,  pleasantness,  and  length  of  days. 
I  find  that  positive  belief  does  this 
For  me,  and  unbelief,  no  whit  of  this. 
• —  For  you,  it  does,  however  —  that  we  '11  try ! 
'Tis  clear,  I  cannot  lead  my  life,  at  least 


BISHOP  HLOUGIJAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Induce  the  world  to  let  me  peaceably, 

Without  declaring  at  the  outset,  "  Friends, 

I  absolutely  and  peremptorily 

Believe  !  "  —  I  say  faith  is  my  waking  life. 

One  sleeps,  indeed,  and  dreams  at  intervals, 

We  know,  but  waking  's  the  main  point  with  us, 

And  my  provision  's  for  life's  waking  part. 

Accordingly,  I  use  heart,  head  and  hands 

All  day,  I  build,  scheme,  study  and  make  friends  ; 

And  when  night  overtakes  me,  down  I  lie, 

Sleep,  dream  a  little,  and  get  done  with  it, 

The  sooner  the  better,  to  begin  afresh. 

What 's  midnight's  doubt  before  the  dayspring's  faith  ? 

You,  the  philosopher,  that  disbelieve, 

That  recognize  the  night,  give  dreams  their  weight  — 

To  be  consistent  you  should  keep  your  bed, 

Abstain  from  healthy  acts  that  prove  you  a  man. 

For  fear  you  drowse  perhaps  at  unawares  ! 

And  certainly  at  night  you  '11  sleep  and  dream, 

Live  through  the  day  and  bustle  as  you  please. 

And  so  you  live  to  sleep  as  I  to  wake, 

To  unbelieve  as  I  to  still  believe  ? 

Well,  and  the  common  sense  of  the  world  calls  you 

Bed-ridden,  —  and  its  good  things  come  to  me. 

Its  estimation,  which  is  half  the  fight, 

That 's  the  first  cabin-comfort  I  secure  — 

The  next  .  .  .  but  you  perceive  with  half  an  eye  ! 

Come,  come,  it 's  best  believing,  if  we  can  — 

You  can't  but  own  that. 


150  BISHOP  BLOUGRAAI'S  APOLOGY. 

Next,  concede  again 

If  once  we  choose  belief,  on  all  accounts 
We  can't  be  too  decisive  in  our  faith, 
Conclusive  and  exclusive  in  its  terms, 
To  suit  the  world  which  gives  us  the  good  tl.ings. 
In  every  man's  career  are  certain  points 
Whereon  he  dares  not  be  indifferent; 
The  world  detects  him  clearly,  if  he  is, 
As  baffled  at  the  game,  and  losing  life. 
He  may  care  little  or  he  may  care  much 
For  riches,  honour,  pleasure,  work,  repose, 
Since  various  theories  of  life  and  life's 
Success  are  extant  which  might  easily 
Comport  with  -either  estimate  of  these, 
And  whoso  chooses  wealth  or  poverty, 
Labour  or  quiet,  is  not  judged  a  fool 
Because  his  fellows  would  choose  otherwise. 
We  let  him  choose  upon  his  own  account 
So  long  as  he 's  consistent  with  his  choice. 
But  certain  points,  left  wholly  to  himself, 
When  once  a  man  has  arbitrated  on, 
We  say  he  must  succeed  there  or  go  hang. 
Thus,  he  should  wed  the  woman  he  loves  most 
Or  needs  most,  whatsoe'er  the  love  or  need  — 
Iv>r  he  can't  wed  twice.     Then,  he  must  avouch 
Or  follow,  at  the  least,  sufficiently, 
The  form  of  faith  his  conscience  holds  the  best, 
Whate'er  the  process  of  conviction  was. 
For  nothing'can  compensate  his  mistake 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  157 

On  such  a  point,  the  man  himself  being  judge  — 
He  cannot  wed  twice,  nor  twice  lose  his  soul. 

Well  now  —  there  's  one  great  form  of  Christian  faith 
I  happened  to  be  born  in  —  which  to  teach 
Was  given  me  as  I  grew  up,  on  all  hands, 
As  best  and  readiest  means  of  living  by  ; 
The  same  on  examination  being  proved 
The  most  pronounced  moreover,  fixed,  precise 
And  absolute  form  of  faith  in  the  whole  world  — 
Accordingly,  most  potent  of  all  forms 
For  working  on  the  world.     Observe,  my  friend, 
Such  as  you  know  me,  I  am  free  to  say, 
In  these  hard  latter  days  which  hamper  one, 
Myself,  by  no  immoderate  exercise 
Of  intellect  and  learning,  and  the  tact 
To  let  external  forces  work  for  me, 
Bid  the  street's  stones  be  bread  and  they  are  bread, 
Bid  Peter's  creed,  or,  rather,  Hildebrand's, 
Exalt  me  o'er  my  fellows  in  the  world 
And  make  my  life  an  ease  and  joy  and  pride, 
It  does  so,  —  which  for  me  's  a  great  point  gained, 
Who  have  a  soul  and  body  that  exact 
A  comfortable  care  in  many  ways. 
There  's  power  in  me  and  will  to  dominate 
Which  I  must  exercise,  they  hurt  me  else  : 
In  many  ways  I  need  mankind's  respect, 
Obedience,  and  the  love  that 's  born  of  fear : 
While  at  the  same  time,  there  's  a  taste  I  have, 


1*38  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

A  toy  of  soul,  a  titillating  thing, 
Refuses  to  digest  these  dainties  crude. 
The  naked  life  is  gross  till  clothed  upon : 
I  must  take  what  men  offer,  with  a  errace 

O 

As  though  I  would  not,  could  I  help  it,  take  ! 
An  uniform  to  wear  though  over-rich  — 
Something  imposed  on  me,  no  choice  of  mine  ; 
No  fancy-dress  worn  for  pure  fashion's  sake 
And  despicable  therefore  !  now  men  kneel 
And  kiss  my  hand  —  of  course  the  Church's  hand. 
Thus  I  am  made,  thus  life  is  best  for  me, 
And  thus  that  it  should  be  I  have  procured  ; 
And  thus  it  could  not  be  another  way, 
I  venture  to  imagine. 

You  '11  reply  — 

So  far  my  choice,  no  doubt,  is  a  success  ; 
But  were  I  made  of  better  elements, 
With  nobler  instincts,  purer  tastes,  like  you, 
I  hardly  would  account  the  thing  success 
Though  it  do  all  for  me  I  say. 

But,  friend, 

We  speak  of  what  is  —  not  of  what  might  be, 
And  how  'twere  better  if  'twere  otherwise. 
I  am  the  man  you  see  here  plain  enough  — 
Grant  I  'in  a  beast,  why  beasts  must  lead  beasts'  lives  J 
Suppose  I  own  at  once  to  tail  and  claws  — 
The  tailless  man  exceeds  me  ;  but  being  tailed 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGF.  10 

I  '11  lash  out  lion-fashion,  and  leave  apes 

To  dock  their  stump  and  dress  their  haunches  up. 

My  business  is  not  to  remake  myself 

But  make  the  absolute  best  of  what  God  made. 

Or  —  our  first  simile  — though  you  proved  me  doomed 

To  a  viler  berth  still,  to  the  steerage-hole, 

The  sheep-pen  or  the  pig-stye,  I  should  strive 

To  make  what  use  of  each  were  possible  ; 

And  as  this  cabin  gets  upholstery, 

That  hutch  should  rustle  with  sufficient  straw. 

But,  friend,  I  don't  acknowledge  quite  so  fast 
I  fail  of  all  your  manhood's  lofty  tastes 
Enumerated  so  complacently, 
On  the  mere  ground  that  you  forsooth  can  find 
In  this  particular  life  I  choose  to  lead 
No  fit  provision  for  them.     Can  you  not  ? 
Say  you,  my  fault  is  I  address  myself 
To  grosser  estimators  than  I  need, 
And  that 's  no  way  of  holding  up  the  soul  — 
Which,  nobler,  needs  men's  praise  perhaps,  yet  knows 
One  wise  man's  verdict  outweighs  all  the  fools',  — 
Would  like  the  two,  but,  forced  to  choose,  takes  that  ? 
I  pine  among  my  million  imbeciles 
(You  think)  aware  some  dozen  men  of  sense 
Eye  me  and  know  me,  whether  I  believe 
In  the  last  winking  Virgin,  as  I  vow, 
And  am  a  fool,  or  disbelieve  in  her 
And  am  a  knave,  —  approve  in  neither  cast;, 


loO  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S   APOLOGY. 

Withhold  their  voices  though  I  look  their  way 

Like  \rerdi  when,  at  his  worst  opera's  end 

(The  thing  they  gave  at  Florence,  —  what 's  its  name  ?) 

While  the  mad  houseful's  plaudits  near  out-bang 

His  orchestra  of  salt-box,  tongs  and  bones, 

He  looks  through  all  the  roaring  and  the  wreaths 

Where  sits  Rossini  patient  in  his  stall. 

.Nay,  friend,  I  meet  you  with  an  answer  here  - — 
For  even  your  prime  men  who  appraise  their  kind 
Are  men  still,  catch  a  thing  within  a  thing, 
See  more  in  a  truth  than  the  truth's  simple  self, 
Confuse  themselves.     You  see  lads  walk  the  street 
Sixty  the  minute  ;  what 's  to  note  in  that  ? 
You  see  one  lad  o'erstride  a  chimney-stack  ; 
Him  you  must  watch  —  he  's  sure  to  fall,  yet  stands  ! 
Our  interest 's  on  the  dangerous  edge  of  things. 
The  honest  thief,  the  tender  murderer, 
The  superstitious  atheist,  demireps 
That  love  and  save  their  souls  in  new  French  books  — > 
We  watch  while  these  in  equilibrium  keep 
The  giddy  line  midway :  one  step  aside, 
They  're  classed  and  done  with.     I,  then,  keep  the  line 
Before  your  sages,  —  just  the  men  to  shrink 
From  the  gross  weights,  coarse  scales,  and  labels  broad 
You  offer  their  refinement.     Fool  or  knave  ? 
Wiry  needs  a  bishop  be  a  fool  or  knave 
When  there  's  a  thousand  diamond  weights;  between  ? 
So  I  enlist  them.     Your  picked  Twelve,  you  '11  find. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  1(3J 

I  "ofess  themselves  indignant,  scandalized 

At  thus  being  held  unable  to  explain 

How  a  superior  man  who  disbelieves 

May  not  believe  as  well :  that 's  Schelling's  way  ! 

It  's  through  my  coming  in  the  tail  of  time, 

Nicking  the  minute  with  a  happy  tact. 

Had  I  been  born  three  hundred  years  ago 

They  'd  say,  "  What 's  strange  ?     Blougram  of  course 

believes  ; " 

And,  seventy  years  since,  "  disbelieves  of  course." 
But  now,  "  He  may  believe  ;  and  yet,  and  yet 
How  can  he  ?  "  —  All  eyes  turn  with  interest. 
Whereas,  step  off  the  line  on  either  side  — 
You,  for  example,  clever  to  a  fault, 
The  rough  and  ready  man  that  write  apace, 
Read  somewhat  seldomer,  think  perhaps  even  less  — 
You  disbelieve  !     Who  wonders  and  who  cares  ? 
Lord  So-and-So  —  his  coat  bedropt  with  wax, 
All  Peter's  chains  about  his  waist,  his  back 
Brave  with  the  needlework  of  Noodledom, 
Believes  !     Again,  who  wonders  and  who  cares  ? 
But  I,  the  man  of  sense  and  learning  too, 
The  able  to  tliink  yet  act,  the  this,  the  that, 
I,  to  believe  at  this  late  time  of  day  ! 
Enough  ;  you  see,  I  need  not  fear  contempt. 

—  Except  it 's  yours  !  admire  me  as  these  may, 
You  don't.     But  what  at  least  do  you  admire  f 
Present  your  own  perfections,  your  ideal, 
11 


162 


Your  pattern  man  for  a  minute  — oh,  make  haste  ? 

Is  it  Napoleon  you  would  have  us  grow  ? 

Concede  the  means  ;  allow  his  head  and  hand, 

(A  large  concession,  clever  as  you  are) 

Good  !  —  In  our  common  primal  element 

Of  unbelief  (we  can't  believe,  you  know  — 

We  're  still  at  that  admission,  recollect) 

Where  do  you  find  —  apart  from,  towering-o'er 

The  secondary  temporary  aims 

Which  satisfy  the  gross  tastes  you  despise  — 

Where  do  you  find  his  star  ?  —  his  crazy  trust 

God  knows  through  what  or  in  what  ?  it  's  alive 

And  shines  and  leads  him  and  that 's  all  we  want* 

Have  we  aught  in  our  sober  night  shall  point 

Such  ends  as  his  were,  and  direct  the  means 

Of  working  out  our  purpose  straight  as  his, 

Nor  bring  a  moment's  trouble  on  success 

With  after-care  to  justify  the  same  ? 

—  Be  a  Napoleon  and  yet  disbelieve  ! 

Why,  the  man  's  mad,  friend,  take  his  light  away. 

What 's  the  vague  good  of  the  world  for  which  you  'd 

dare 

With  comfort  to  yourself  blow  millions  up  ? 
We  neither  of  us  see  it !  we  do  see 
The  blown-up  millions  —  spatter  of  their  brains 
And  writhing  of  their  bowels  and  so  forth, 
In  that  bewildering  entanglement 
Of  horrible  eventualities 
"'**ist  calculation  to  the  end  of  time  1 


BISHOP  BLOUGIIAM'S   APOLOGY.  103 

Can  I  mistake  for  some  clear  word  of  God 

(Which  were  my  ample  warrant  for  it  all) 

His  puff  of  hazy  instincts,  idle  talk, 

"  The  state,  that 's  I,"  quack-nonsense  about  kings, 

And  (when  one  beats  the  man  to  his  last  hold) 

The  vague  idea  of  setting  things  to  rights, 

Policing  people  efficaciously, 

More  to  their  profit,  most  of  all  to  his  own  ; 

The  whole  to  end  that  dismallest  of  ends 

By  an  Austrian  marriage,  cant  to  us  the  church. 

And  resurrection  of  the  old  regime. 

Would  I,  who  hope  to  live  a  dozen  years, 

Fight  Austerlitz  for  reasons  such  and  such  ? 

No :  for,  concede  me  but  the  merest  chance 

Doubt  may  be  wrong  —  there  's  judgment,  life  to  come  ! 

With  just  that  chance,  I  dare  not.     Doubt  proves  right  ? 

This  present  life  is  all  ?  you  offer  me 

Its  dozen  noisy  years  with  not  a  chance 

That  wedding  an  Arch-Duchess,  wearing  lace, 

And  getting  called  by  divers  new-coined  names, 

Will  drive  off  ugly  thoughts  and  let  me  dine, 

Sleep,  read  and  chat  in  quiet  as  I  like  ! 

Therefore,  I  will  not. 

Take  another  case ; 
Fit  up  the  cabin  yet  another  way. 
What  say  you  to  the  poet's  ?  shall  we  write 
Hamlets,  Othellos  —  make  the  world  our  own, 
Without  a  risk  to  run  of  either  sort  ? 


164  BISHOP  BLOUGKAM'S  APOLOGY. 

I  can't  !  — •  to  put  the  strongest  reason  first. 

"  But  try,"  you  urge,  'k  the  trying  shall  suffice  : 

The  aim,  if  reached  or  not,  makes  great  the  life. 

Try  to  be  Shakspeare,  leave  the  rest  to  fate  !  " 

Spare  my  self-knowledge  —  there  's  no  fooling  me  ! 

If  I  prefer  remaining  my  poor  self, 

I  say  so  not  in  self-dispraise  but  praise. 

It'  1  'in  a  Shakspeare,  let  the  well  alone  — 

Why  should  I  try  to  be  what  now  I  am  ? 

It'  I  'ra  no  Shakspeare,  as  too  probable,  — 

His  power  and  consciousness  and  self-delight 

And  all  we  want  in  common,  shall  I  find  — 

Trying  forever  ?  while  on  points  of  taste 

Wherewith,  to  speak  it  humbly,  he  and  I 

Are  dowered  alike  —  I  '11  ask  you,  I  or  he, 

Which  in  our  two  lives  realizes  most  ? 

Much,  he  imagined  —  somewhat,  I  possess. 

He  had  the  imagination ;  stick  to  that ! 

Let  him  say  "  In  the  face  of  my  soul's  works 

Your  world  is  worthless  and  I  touch  it  not 

Lest  I  should  wrong  them  " —  I  withdraw  my  plea 

But  does  he  say  so  ?  look  upon  his  life  ! 

Himself,  who  only  can,  gives  judgment  there. 

He  leaves  his  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces 

To  build  the  trimmest  house  in  'Stratford  town  ; 

Saves  money,  spends  it,  owns  the  worth  of  things, 

Giulio  Romano's  pictures,  Dowland's  lute  ; 

Knjoys  a  show,  respects  the  puppets,  too, 

And  none  more,  had  he  seen  its  entry  once, 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

Than  "  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal." 
Why  then  should  I  who  play  that  personage, 
The  very  Pandulph  Shakspeare's  fancy  made, 
Be  told  that  had  the  poet  chanced  to  start 
From  where  I  stand  now  (some  degree  like  mine 
Being  just  the  goal  he  ran  his  race  to  reach) 
He  would  have  run  the  whole  race  back,  forsooth, 
And  left  being  Pandulph,  to  begin  write  plays  ? 
Ah,  the  earth's  best  can  be  but  the  earth's  best ! 
Did  Shakspeare  live,  he  could  but  sit  at  home 
And  get  himself  in  dreams  the  Vatican, 
Greek  busts,  Venetian  paintings,  Roman  walls, 
And  English  books,  none  equal  to  his  own, 
Which  I  read,  bound  in  gold,  (he  never  did.) 
—  Terni  and  Naples'  bay  and  Got  hard's  top  — 
Eh,  friend  ?     I  could  not  fancy  one  of  these  — 
But,  as  I  pour  this  claret,  there  they  are  — 
I've  gained  them  —  crossed  St.  Gothard  last  July 
With  ten  mules  to  the  carriage  and  a  bed 
Slung  inside  ;  is  my  hap  the  worse  for  that  ? 
We  want  the  same  things,  Shakspeare  and  myself, 
And  what  I  want,  I  have  :  he,  gifted  more, 
Could  fancy  he  too  had  it  when  he  liked, 
But  not  so  thoroughly  that  if  fate  allowed 
He  would  not  have  it  also  in  my  sense. 
We  play  one  game.     I  send  the  ball  aloft 
No  less  adroitly  that  of  fifty  strokes 
Scarce  five  go  o'er  the  wall  so  wide  and  high 
Which  sends  them  back  to  me :   I  wish  and  «;et. 


Ibb  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

He  struck  balls  higher  and  with  better  skill, 
But  at  a  poor  fence  level  with  his  head, 
And  hit  —  his  Stratford  house,  a  coat  of  arms, 
Successful  dealings  in  his  grain  and  wool, — 
While  I  receive  heaven's  incense  in  my  nose 
And  style  myself  the  cousin  of  Queen  Bess. 
Ask  him,  if  this  life  's  all,  who  wins  the  game  ? 

Believe  —  and  our  whole  argument  breaks  up. 

Enthusiasm  's  the  best  thing,  I  repeat ; 

Only,  we  can't  command  it ;  fire  and  life 

Are  all,  dead  matter  's  nothing,  we  agree  : 

And  be  it  a  mad  dream  or  God's  very  breath, 

The  fact  's  the  same,  —  belief's  fire  once  in  us, 

Makes  of  all  else  mere  stuff  to  show  itself. 

We  penetrate  our  life  with  such  a  glow 

As  fire  lends  wood  and  iron  —  this  turns  steel, 

That  burns  to  ash  —  all 's  one,  fire  proves  its  power 

For  good  or  ill,  since  men  call  flare  success. 

But  paint  a  fire,  it  will  not  therefore  burn. 

Light  one  in  me,  I  '11  find  it  food  enough  ! 

Why,  to  be  Luther  —  that 's  a  life  to  lead, 

Incomparably  better  than  my  own. 

He  comes,  reclaims  God's  earth  for  God,  he  says, 

Sets  up  God's  rule  again  by  simple  means, 

lie-opens  a  shut  book,  and  all  is  done. 

He  flared  out  in  the  flaring  of  mankind  ; 

Such  Luther's  luck  was  —  how  shall  such  be  mine  ? 

If  he  succeeded,  nothing  's  left  to  do  : 


BISHOP    BLOUGRAM'S    APOLOGY.  1() 

And  if  he  did  not  altogether  —  well, 

Strauss  is  the  next  advance.     All  Strauss  should  be 

I  might  be  also.     But  to  what  result  ? 

He  looks  upon  no  future  :  Luther  did. 

What  can  I  gain  on  the  denying  side  ? 

Ice  makes  no  conflagration.     State  the  facts, 

Read  the  text  right,  emancipate  the  world  — 

The  emancipated  world  enjoys  itself 

With  scarce  a  thank-you  —  Blougram  told  it  first 

It  could  not  owe  a  farthing,  —  not  to  him 

More  than  St.  Paul !  'twould  press  its  pay,  you  think  ? 

Then  add  there  's  still  that  plaguey  hundredth  chance 

Strauss  may  be  wrong.     And  so  a  risk  is  run  — 

For  what  gain  ?  not  for  Luther's,  who  secured 

A  real  heaven  in  his  heart  throughout  his  life, 

Supposing  death  a  little  altered  things  ! 

"Ay,  but  since  really  I  lack  faith,"  you  cry, 
"  I  run  the  same  risk  really  on  all  sides, 
In  cool  indifference  as  bold  unbelief. 
As  well  be  Strauss  as  swing  'twixt  Paul  and  him. 
It 's  not  worth  having,  such  imperfect  faith, 
Nor  more  available  to  do  faith's  work 
Than  unbelief  like  yours.     Whole  faith,  or  none  !  " 

Softly,  my  friend  !  I  must  dispute  that  point. 
Once  own  the  use  of  faith,  I  '11  find  you  faith- 
We  're  back  on  Christian  ground.      You  call  for  faith: 
I  show  you  doubt,  to  prove  that  faith  exists. 


108  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

The  more  of  doubt,  the  stronger  faith,  I  say, 

If  faith  o'ercomes  doubt.     I  low  I  know  it  does  ? 

By  life  and  man's  free  will,  God  gave  for  that  ! 

To  mould  life  as  we  choose  it,  shows  our  choice  : 

That's  our  one  act,  the  previous  work  's  His  own. 

You  criticize  the  soil  ?  it  reared  this  tree  — 

This  broad  life  and  whatever  fruit  it  bears  ! 

"What  matter  though  I  doubt  at  every  pore, 

Head-doubts,  heart-doubts,  doubts  at  my  fingers'  ends, 

Doubts  in  the  trivial  work  of  every  day, 

Doubts  at  the  very  bases  of  my  soul 

In  the  grand  moments  when  she  probes  herself  — 

If  finally  I  have  a  life  to  show, 

The  thing  I  did,  brought  out  in  evidence 

Against  the  thing  done  to  me  underground 

By  Hell  and  all  its  brood,  for  aught  I  know  ? 

I  say,  whence  sprang  this?  shows  it  faith  or  doubt  ? 

All's  doubt  in  me  ;  where 's  break  of  faith  in  this  ? 

It  is  the  idea,  the  feeling  and  the  love 

God  means  mankind  should  strive  for  and  show  forth, 

Whatever  be  the  process  to  that  end, — 

And  not  historic  knowledge,  logic  sound, 

And  metaphysical  acumen,  sure  ! 

"  What  think  ye  of  Christ,"  friend  ?  when  all 's  done 

and  said, 

You  like  this  Christianity  or  not  ? 
It  may  be  false,  but  will  you  wish  it  true  ? 
Has  it  your  vote  to  be  so  if  it  can  ? 
Trust  you  an  instinct  silenced  lon<^  aero 


BISHOP    BLOUG  HAM'S    APOLOGT.  1C! 

That  will  break  silence  and  enjoin  you  love 

What  mortified  philosophy  is  hoarse, 

Ai.d  all  in  vain,  with  bidding  you  despise  ? 

If  you  desire  faith  —  then  you  Ve  faith  enough. 

"What  else  seeks  God  —  nay,  what  else  seek  ourselves  ? 

You  form  a  notion  of  me,  we  '11  suppose, 

On  hearsay  ;  it's  a  favourable  one  : 

"  But  still,"  (you  add,)  "  there  was  no  such  good  man, 

Because  of  contradictions  in  the  facts. 

One  proves,  for  instance,  he  was  born  in  Rome, 

This  Blougram  —  yet  throughout  the  tales  of  him 

I  see  he  figures  as  an  Englishman." 

Well,  the  two  things  are  reconcilable 

But  would  I  rather  you  discovered  that, 

Subjoining  — "  Still,  what  matter  though  they  be  ? 

Blougram  concerns  me  nought,  born  here  or  there." 

Pure  faith  indeed  —  you  know  not  what  you  ask  ! 
Naked  belief  in  God  the  Omnipotent, 
Omniscient,  Omnipresent,  sears  too  much 
The  sense  of  conscious  creatures  to  be  borne. 
It  were  the  seeing  him,  no  flesh  shall  dare. 
Some  think,  Creation 's  meant  to  show  him  forth  : 
I  say,  it 's  meant  to  hide  him  all  it  can, 
And  that 's  what  all  the  blessed  Evil 's  for. 
Its  use  in  time  is  to  environ  us, 
Our  breath,  our  drop  of  dew,  with  shield  enough 
Against  that  sight  till  we  can  bear  its  stress. 
Under  a  vertical  sun,  the  exposed  brain 


170  BISHOP  ULOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

And  lidless  eye  and  disimprisoned  heart 
Less  certainly  would  wither  up  at  once 
Than  mind,  confronted  with  the  truth  of  Him. 
But  time  and  earth  case-harden  us  to  live  ; 
The  feeblest  sense  is  trusted  most ;  the  child 
Feels  God  a  moment,  ichors  o'er  the  place, 
Plays  on  and  grows  to  be  a  man  like  us. 
With  me,  faith  means  perpetual  unbelief 
Kept  quiet  like  the  snake  'neath  Michael's  foot 
Who  stands  calm  just  because  he  feels  it  writhe. 
Or,  if  that 's  too  ambitious,  —  here  's  my  box  — 
I  need  the  excitation  of  a  pinch 
Threatening  the  torpor  of  the  inside-nose 
Nigh  on  the  imminent  sneeze  that  never  comes. 
"  Leave  it  in  peace  "  advise  the  simple  folk  — 
Make  it  aware  of  peace  by  itching-fits, 
Say  I  —  let  doubt  occasion  still  more  faith  ! 

You  '11  say,  once  all  believed,  man,  woman,  child, 
In  that  dear  middle-age  these  noodles  praise. 
How  you  'd  exult  if  I  could  put  you  back 
Six  hundred  years,  blot  out  cosmogony, 
Geology,  ethnology,  what  not, 
(Greek  endings  with  the  little  passing-bell 
That  signifies  some  faith  's  about  to  die) 
And  set  you  square  with  Genesis  again,  — 
When  such  a  traveller  told  you  his  last  news, 
lie  saw  the  ark  a-top  of  Ararat 
But  did  not  climb  there  sinc;e  'twas  getting  dusk 


BISHOP    3LOUGRAM*3    APOLOGY.  171 

And  robber-bands  infest  the  mountain's  foot ! 
How  should  you  feel,  I  ask,  in  such  an  age, 
How  act  ?     As  other  people  felt  and  did  ; 
With  soul  more  blank  than  this  decanter's  knob, 
Believe  —  and  yet  lie,  kill,  rob,  fornicate 
Full  in  belief's  face,  like  the  beast  you'd  be  ! 

.No,  when  the  fight  begins  within  himself, 
A  man  's  worth  something.     God  stoops  o'er  his  head, 
Satan  looks  up  between  his  feet  —  both  tug  — 
He  's  left,  himself,  in  the  middle  :  the  soul  wakes 
And  grows.     Prolong  that  battle  through  his  life  ! 
Never  leave  growing  till  the  life  to  come  ! 
Here,  we  've  got  callous  to  the  Virgin's  winks 
That  used  to  puzzle  people  wholesomely  — 
Men  have  outgrown  the  shame  of  being  fools. 
What  are  the  laws  of  Nature  not  to  bend 
If  the  Church  bid  them,  brother  Newman  asks. 
Up  with  the  Immaculate  Conception,  then  — 
On  to  the  rack^with  faith  —  is  my  advice  ! 
Will  not  that  hurry  us  upon  our  knees 
Knocking  our  breasts,  "  It  can't  be  —  yet  it  shall  ! 
Who  am  I,  the  worm,  to  argue  with  my  Pope  ? 
Low  things  confound  the  high  things  !  "  and  so  forth. 
That 's  better  than  acquitting  God  with  grace 
As  some  folks  do.     He  's  tried  —  no  case  is  proved^ 
Philosophy  is  lenient  —  He  may  go  ! 

You  '11  say  —  the  old  system  's  not  so  obsolete 


172  BISHOP    bLOUGRAM'S    APOLOGY. 

But  men  believe  still :  ay,  but  who  and  where  ? 

King  Bomba's  lazzaroni  foster  yet 

The  sacred  flame,  so  Antonelli  writes  ; 

But  even  of  these,  what  ragamuffin-saint 

Believes  God  watches  him  continually, 

As  he  believes  in  fire  that  it  will  burn, 

Or  rain  that  it  will  drench  him  ?     Break  fire's  law, 

Sin  against  rain,  although  the  penalty 

Be  just  a  singe  or  soaking  ?     No,  he  smiles  ; 

Those  laws  are  laws  that  can  enforce  themselves. 

The  sum  of  all  is  —  yes,  my  doubt  is  great, 
My  faith  's  the  greater  —  then  my  faith  's  enough. 
I  have  read  much,  thought  much,  experienced  much, 
Yet  would  die  rather  than  avow  my  fear 
The  Naples'  liquefaction  may  be  false, 
When  set  to  happen  by  the  palace-clock 
According  to  the  clouds  or  dinner-time. 
I  hear  you  recommend,  I  might  at  least 
Eliminate,  decrassify  my  faith 
Since  I  adopt  it ;  keeping  what  I  must 
And  leaving  what  I  can  —  such  points  as  this  ! 
I  won't  —  that  is,  I  can't  throw  one  away. 
Supposing  there  's  no  truth  in  what  I  said 
About  the  need  of  trials  to  man's  faith, 
Still,  when  you  bid  me  purify  the  same, 
To  such  a  process  I  discern  no  end, 
Clearing  off  one  excrescence  to  see  two  ; 
There  's  ever  a  next  in  size,  now  grown  as  big, 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  173 

That  meets  the  knife  —  I  cut  and  cut  again  ! 
First  cut  the  Liquefaction,  what  comes  last 
But  Fichte's  clever  cut  at  God  himself? 
Experimentalize  on  sacred  things  ? 
I  trust  nor  hand  nor  eye  nor  heart  nor  brain 
To  stop  betimes  :  they  all  get  drunk  alike. 
The  first  step,  I  am  master  not  to  take. 

You  'd  find  the  cutting-process  to  your  taste 
As  much  as  leaving  growths  of  lies  unpruned, 
Nor  see  more  danger  in  it,  you  retort. 
Your  taste 's  worth  mine  ;  but  my  taste  proves  more  wise 
When  we  consider  that  the  steadfast  hold 
On  the  extreme  end  of  the  chain  of  faith 
Gives  all  the  advantage,  makes  the  difference, 
With  the  rough  purblind  mass  we  seek  to  rule 
We  are  their  lords,  or  they  are  free  of  us 
Just  as  we  tighten  or  relax  that  hold. 
So,  other  matters  equal,  we  '11  revert 
To  the  first  problem  —  which  if  solved  my  way 
And  thrown  into  the  balance  turns  the  scale  — 
How  we  may  lead  a  comfortable  life, 
How  suit  our  luggage  to  the  cabin's  size. 

Of  course  you  are  remarking  all  this  time 
How  narrowly  and  grossly  I  view  life, 
Respect  the  creature-comforts,  care  to  rule 
The  masses,  and  regard  complacently 
M  The  cabin,"  in  our  old  phrase  !     Well,  I  do. 


174  BISHOP    BLOUGRAMVS    APOLOGY. 

I  act  for,  talk  for,  live  for  this  world  now, 
As  this  world  calls  for  action,  life  and  talk  — 
No  prejudice  to  what  next  world  may  prove, 
Whose  new  laws  and  requirements  rny  best  pledge 
To  observe  then,  is  that  I  observe  these  now, 
Doing  hereafter  what  I  do  meanwhile. 
Let  us  concede  (gratuitously  though) 
Next  life  relieves  the  soul  of  body,  yields 
Pure  spiritual  enjoyments  :  well,  my  friend, 
Why  lose  this  life  in  the  mean  time,  since  its  use 
May  be  to  make  the  next  life  more  intense  ? 

Do  you  know,  I  have  often  had  a  dream 
(Work  it  up  in  your  next  month's  article) 
Of  man's  poor  spirit  in  its  progress  still 
Losing  true  life  forever  and  a  day 
Through  ever  trying  to  be  and  ever  being 
In  the  evolution  of  successive  spheres, 
Before  its  actual  sphere  and  place  of  life, 
Half-way  into  the  next,  which  having  reached, 
It  shoots  with  corresponding  foolery 
Half-way  into  the  next  still,  on  and  off! 
As  when  a  traveller,  bound  from  north  to  south, 
Scouts  fur  in  Russia — what 's  its  use  in  France? 
In  France  spurns  flannel  —  where 's  its  need  in  Spain  ? 
lu  Spain  drops  cloth  —  too  cumbrous  for  Algiers  ! 
Linen  goes  next,  and  last  the  skin  itself, 
A  superfluity  at  Timbuctoo. 
When,  through  his  journey,  was  the  fool  at  ease  ? 


BISHOP    BLOU<;ilA3l"s    APOLOGY. 

I  'm  ai  ease  now,  friend  —  worldly  in  this  world 

I  take  and  like  its  way  of  life  ;  I  think 

My  brothers  who  administer  the  means 

Live  better  for  my  comfort  —  that 's  good  too  ; 

And  God,  if  he  pronounce  upon  it  all, 

Approves  my  service,  which  is  better  still. 

If  He  keep  silence,  —  why  for  you  or  me 

Or  that  brute-beast  pulled-up  in  to-day's  "  Times," 

What  odds  is  't,  save  to  ourselves,  what  life  we  lead  ? 

You  meet  me  at  this  issue  —  you  declare, 
All  special-pleading  done  with,  truth  is  truth, 
And  justifies  itself  by  undreamed  ways. 
You  don't  fear  but  it 's  better,  if  we  doubt, 
To  say  so,  acting  up  to  our  truth  perceived 
However  feebly.     Do  then,  —  act  away  ! 
'Tis  there  I  'm  on  the  watch  for  you  !     How  one  acts 
Is,  both  of  us  agree,  our  chief  concern  : 
And  how  you  '11  act  is  what  I  fain  would  see 
If,  like  the  candid  person  you  appear, 
You  dare  to  make  the  most  of  your  life's  scheme 
As  I  of  mine,  live  up  to  its  full  law 
Since  there  's  no  higher  law  that  counterchecks. 
Put  natural  religion  to  the  test 
You  've  just  demolished  the  revealed  with  —  quick, 
Down  tc  the  root  of  all  that  checks  your  will, 
All  prohibition  to  lie,  kill,  and  thieve 
Or  even  to  be  an  atheistic  priest ! 
Suppose  a  pricking  to  incontinence  — 


176  BISHOP    BLOUr.HAM'S    APOLOGY. 

Philosophers  deduce  you  chastity 

Or  shame,  from  just  the  fact  that  at  the  first 

Whoso  embraced  a  woman  in  the  plain, 

Threw  club  down,  and  forewent  his  brains  beside, 

So  stood  a  ready  victim  in  the  reach 

Of  any  brother-savage  club  in  hand  — • 

Hence  saw  the  use  of  going  out  of  sight 

In  wood  or  cave  to  prosecute  his  loves  — 

I  read  this  in  a  French  book  t'other  day. 

Does  law  so  analyzed  coerce  you  much  ? 

Oh,  men  spin  clouds  of  fuzz  where  matters  end, 

But  you  who  reach  where  the  first  thread  begins, 

You  '11  soon  cut  that !  —  which  means  you  can,  but  won'] 

Through  certain  instincts,  blind,  unreasoned-out, 

You  dare  not  set  aside,  you  can't  tell  why, 

But  there  they  are,  and  so  you  let  them  rule. 

Then,  friend,  you  seem  as  much  a  slave  as  I, 

A  liar,  conscious  coward  and  hypocrite, 

Without  the  good  the  slave  expects  to  get, 

Suppose  he  has  a  master  after  all ! 

You  own  your  instincts  —  why  what  else  do  I, 

Who  want,  am  made  for,  and  must  have  a  God 

Hire  I  can  be  aught,  do  aught  ?  —  no  mere  name 

v^ant,  but  the  true  thing  with  what  proves  its  truth, 

To  wit,  a  relation  from  that  thing  to  me, 

Touching  from  head  to  foot  —  which  touch  I  feelj 

And  with  it  take  the  rest,  this  life  of  ours  ! 

I  live  my  life  here  ;  yours  you  dare  not  live. 

Not  as  I  state  it,  who  (you  please  subjoin) 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  177 

Disfigure  such  a  life  and  call  it  names, 
While,  in  your  mind,  remains  another  way 
For  simple  men  :  knowledge  and  power  have  eights, 
But  ignorance  and  weakness  have  rights  too. 
There  needs  no  crucial  effort  to  find  truth 
If  here  or  there  or  anywhere  about  — 
We  ought  to  turn  each  side,  try  hard  and  see, 
And  if  we  can't,  be  glad  we  've  earned  at  least 
The  right,  by  one  laborious  proof  the  more, 
To  graze  in  peace  earth's  pleasant  pasturage. 
Men  are  not  gods,  but,  properly,  are  brutes. 
Something  we  may  see,  all  we  cannot  see  — 
What  need  of  lying  ?  I  say,  I  see  all, 
And  swear  to  each  detail  the  most  minute 
In  what  I  think  a  man's  face  —  you,  mere  cloud : 
I  swear  I  hear  him  speak  and  see  him  wink, 
For  fear,  if  once  I  drop  the  emphasis, 
Mankind  may  doubt  if  there  's  a  cloud  at  all. 
You  take  the  simpler  life  —  ready  to  see, 
Willing  to  see  —  for  no  cloud 's  worth  a  face  — 
And  leaving  quiet  what  no  strength  can  move, 
And  which,  who  bids  you  move  ?  who  has  the  right  ? 
I  bid  you  ;  but  you  are  God's  sheep,  not  mine  — 
"  Pastor  est  tui  Dominus"     You  find 
In  these  the  pleasant  pastures  of  this  life 
Much  you  may  eat  without  the  least  offence, 
Much  you  don't  eat  because  your  maw  objects, 
Much  you  would  eat  but  that  your  fellow-flock 
Open  great  eyes  at  you  and  even  butt, 
12 


178  BISHOP  BLOUG RAM'S  APOLOGY. 

And  thereupon  you  like  your  friends  so  much 
You  cannot  please  yourself,  offending  them  — 
Though  when  they  seem  exorbitantly  sheep, 
You  weigh  your  pleasure  with  their  butts  and  kicks 
And  strike  the  balance.     Sometimes  certain  fears 
Restrain  you  —  real  cheeks  since  you  find  them  .*<>  — 
Sometimes  you  please  yourself  and  nothing  checks  ; 
And  thus  you  graze  through  life  with  not  one  lie, 
And  like  it  best. 

But  do  you,  in  truth's  name  ? 

If  so,  you  beat  —  which  means  —  you  are  not  I  — 
Who  needs  must  make  earth  mine  and  feed  my  fill 
Not  simply  unbutted  at,  unbickered  with, 
But  motioned  to  the  velvet  of  the  sward 
By  those  obsequious  whethers'  very  selves. 
Look  at  me,  sir  ;  my  age  is  double  yours. 
At  yours,  I  knew  beforehand,  so  enjoyed, 
What  now  I  should  be  —  as,  permit  the  word, 
I  pretty  well  imagine  your  whole  range 
And  stretch  of  tether  twenty  years  to  come. 
We  both  have  minds  and  bodies  much  alike. 
In  truth's  name,  don't  you  want  my  bishopric, 
My  daily  bread,  my  influence  and  my  state  ? 
You  're  young,  I  'm  old,  you  must  be  old  one  day  ; 
Will  you  find  then,  as  I  do  hour  by  hour, 
Women  their  lovers  kneel  to,  that  cut  curls 
From  your  fat  lapdog's  ears  to  grace  a  brooch  — 
Dukes,  that  petition  just  to  kiss  your  ring  — 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  172 

With  much  beside  you  know  or  may  conceive  ? 

Suppose  we  die  to-night :  well,  here  am  I, 

Such  were  my  gains,  life  bore  this  fruit  to  me, 

While  writing  all  the  same  my  articles 

On  music,  poetry,  the  fictile  vase 

Found  at  Albano,  or  Anacreon's  Greek. 

But  you. —  the  highest  honour  in  your  life, 

The  thing  you  '11  crown  yourself  with,  all  your  days, 

Is  —  dining  here  and  drinking  this  last  glass 

I  pour  you  out  in  sign  of  amity 

Before  we  part  forever.     Of  your  power 

And  social  influence,  worldly  worth  in  short, 

Judge  what 's  my  estimation  by  the  fact  — 

I  do  not  condescend  to  enjoin,  beseech, 

Hint  secrecy  on  one  of  all  these  words  ! 

You  're  shrewd  and  know  that  should  you  publish  it 

The  world  would  brand  the  lie  —  my  enemies  first, 

"  Who  'd  sneer  —  the  bishop  'a  an  arch-hypocrite, 

And  knave  perhaps,  but  not  so  frank  a  fool." 

Whereas  I  should  not  dare  for  both  my  ears 

Breathe  one  such  syllable,  smile  one  such  smile, 

Before  my  chaplain  who  reflects  myself — 

My  shade  's  so  much  more  potent  than  your  flesh. 

What 's  your  reward,  self-abnegating  friend  ? 

Stood  you  confessed  of  those  exceptiona1 

And  privileged  great  natures  that  dwarf  mine  — 

A  zealot  with  a  mad  ideal  in  reach, 

A  poet  just  about  to  print  his  ode, 

A  statesman  with  a  scheme  to  stop  this  war, 


180  BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

An  artist  whose  religion  is  his  art, 
I  should  have  nothing  to  object !  such  men 
Carry  the  fire,  all  things  grow  warm  to  them, 
Their  drugget 's  worth  my  purple,  they  beat  me. 
Uut  you,  —  you  're  just  as  little  those  as  I  — 
You,  Gigadibs,  who,  thirty  years  of  age, 
Write  statedly  for  Black  wood's  Magazine, 
Believe  you  see  two  points  in  Hamlet's  soul 
Unseized  by  the  Germans  yet — which  view  you'll  print- 
Meantime  the  best  you  have  to  show  being  stih1 
That  lively  lightsome  article  we  took 
Almost  for  the  true  Dickens,  —  what 's  the  name  ? 
"  The  Slum  and  Cellar  —  or  Whitechapel  life 
Limned  after  dark  !  "  it  made  me  laugh,  I  know, 
And  pleased  a  month  and  brought  you  in  ten  pounds 
• —  Success  I  recognize  and  compliment, 
And  therefore  give  you,  if  you  please,  three  words 
(The  card  and  pencil-scratch  is  quite  enough) 
Which  whether  here,  in  Dublin,  or  New  York, 
Will  get  you,  prompt  as  at  my  eyebrow's  wink, 
Such  terms  as  never  you  aspired  to  get 
In  all.  our  own  reviews  and  some  not  ours. 
Go  write  your  lively  sketches  —  be  the  first 
"•  Blougram,  or  The  Eccentric  Confidence  "  — 
Or  better  simply  say,  "The  Outward-bound." 
Why,  men  as  soon  would  throw  it  in  my  teeth 
As  copy  and  quote  the  infamy  chalked  broad 
About  me  on  the  church-door  opposite. 
You  will  not  wait  for  that  experience  though, 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY.  18; 

I  fancy,  howsoever  you  decide, 
To  discontinue  —  not  detesting,  not 
Defaming,  but  at  least  —  despising  me  ! 


Over  his  wine  so  smiled  and  talked  his  hour 
Sylvester  Blougram,  styled  in  partibus 
Episcopus,  nee  non  —  (the  deuce  knows  what 
It's  changed  to  by  our  novel  hierarchy) 
With  Gigadibs  the  literary  man, 
Who  played  with  spoons,  explored  his  plate's  design 
And  ranged  the  olive  stones  about  its  edge, 
While  the  great  bishop  rolled  him  out  his  mind. 

For  Blougram,  he  believed,  say,  half  he  spoke. 
The  other  portion,  as  he  shaped  it  thus 
For  argumentatory  purposes, 
He  felt  his  foe  was  foolish  to  dispute. 
Some  arbitrary  accidental  thoughts 
That  crossed  his  mind,  amusing  because  new, 
He  chose  to  represent  as  fixtures  there, 
Invariable  convictions  (such  they  seemed 
Beside  his  interlocutor's  loose  cards 
Flung  daily  down,  and  not  the  same  way  twice) 
While  certain  hell-deep  instincts,  man's  weak  tongu 
Ib  never  bold  to  utter  in  their  truth 
Because  styled  hell-deep  (it  is  an  old  mistake 
To  place  hell  at  the  bottom  of  the  earth) 
He  ignored  these,  —  not  having  in  readiness 


182  BISHOP 

Their  nomenclature  and  philosophy  : 

He  said  true  things,  but  called  them  by  wrong  names. 

"  On  the  whole,"  he  thought,  "  I  justify  myself 

On  every  point  where  cavillers  like  this 

Oppugn  my  life  :  he  tries  one  kind  of  fence  — 

I  close  —  he 's  worsted,  that 's  enough  for  him  ; 

He  's  on  the  ground !  if  the  ground  should  break  awa 

I  take  my  stand  on,  there  's  a  firmer  yet 

Beneath  it,  both  of  us  may  sink  and  reach. 

His  ground  was  over  mine  and  broke  the  first. 

So  let  him  sit  with  me  this  many  a  year  !  " 

He  did  not  sit  five  minutes.     Just  a  week 
Sufficed  his  sudden  healthy  vehemence. 
(Something  had  struck  him  in  the  "Outward-bound" 
Another  way  than  Blougram's  purpose  was) 
And  having  bought,  not  cabin-furniture 
But  settler's-implements  (enough  for  three) 
And  started  for  Australia  —  there,  I  hope, 
By  this  time  he  has  tested  his  first  plough, 
And  studied  his  last  chapter  of  St.  John. 


MEMORABILIA. 


An,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you  ? 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  ! 


Hut  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  you  are  living  after, 
And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

3. 

I  crossed  a  moor  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  use  in  the  world  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about  — 

4. 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  — 
Well,  T  forget  the  rest. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 
(CALLED  "THK  FAULTLESS  PATNTEU.") 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia  ;  bear  with  me  for  once  : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I  '11  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I  '11  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow,  Love  ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly,  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  ! 


ANDRKA    DEL    SARTO.  18.1 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curl  3  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  either  ;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  — 

* 

It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so  — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet  — • 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  1  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  •turn, 
While  she  looks  —  no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less  ! 
You  smile  ?  why,  there  's  my  picture  ready  made. 
There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  every  thing,  — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That 's  gone  you  know,)  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top  ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside  ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days  decrease 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every  thing. 
Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 


186  ANDREA    DEL    SARTO. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead  ! 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are : 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter  :  let  it  lie  ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us  !  you  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak ; 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna,  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  peneil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say  perfectly 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it, 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that 's  long  past  — 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  some  one  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  so  much  less  ! 
Well,  less  is  more.  Lucrezia !  I  am  judged. 


ANDREA     DEL    SARTO.  187 

There  burn 3  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed,  beating,  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word  — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  —  what  of  that  ?  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered  —  what  of  that  ? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what 's  a  Heaven  for  ?  all  is  silver-gray 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art  —  the  worse  ! 

1  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain  — 

And  yet  how  profitless  tq  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  ! "          No 

doubt. 

Yonder  's  a  work,  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 


188  ANDREA    DEL    SAUTO. 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  Heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way  ; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak  !  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it. 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me  !  out  of  me!     And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  fqr  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  writh  Angelo  — 

Rafael  is  waiting.     Up  to  God  all  three  ! " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems  — 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Angelo  ? 


ANDREA  D::L  SARTO.  189 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not  — 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power  — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict , 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak  !     That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 

One  finger  on  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile. 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

You  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  mc\ 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eye*, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  la^t  reward  ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  da^.s  ? 


190  ANDREA    DEL    SAKTO. 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  — but  I  know  — 

'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said  ; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray  — 

And  I  'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was  to  have  ended  there  —  then  if 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 

"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that  — 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife  —  " 

Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Angelo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rai'ael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours ! " 

To  Rafael's  !  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO. 

I  hardly  dare  —  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

G-ive  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he  's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michael  Angelo  ? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, 

Is,  whether  you  're  — not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !     Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now  ;  there  's  a  star  ; 

Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall. 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  Love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me.     Oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar  fierce  bf  ight  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 

That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 

Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?     Those  loans  I 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 


Iy2  AXDREA    DEL    SA17TO. 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work  's  my  ware,  and  what 's  it  worth  ? 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

IIo\v  I  could  paint  were  I  but  hack  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  — the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  your's  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michael  Angelo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

J  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.      Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff'. 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?     Ah,  but  what  doe?  he, 

The  Cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO. 

How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 
And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try  ! 
No  doubt,  there  's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Angelo  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine  I     So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !     Go,  my  Love. 


BEFORE. 

1. 

LET  them  fight  it  out,  friend !  things  have  gone  too  faf 
God  must  judge  the  couple !  leave  them  as  they  are 
—  Whichever  one 's  the  guiltless,  to  his  glory, 
And  whichever  one  the  guilt 's  with,  to  my  story. 


Why,  you  would  not  bid  mr  n,  sunk  in  such  a  slough, 
Strike  no  arm  out  further,  stick  and  stink  as  now, 
Leaving  right  and  wrong  to  settle  the  embroilment, 
Heaven  with  snaky  Hell,  in  torture  and  entoilrnent  ? 

3. 

Which  of  them  's  the  culprit,  how  must  he  conceive 
God's  the  queen  he  caps  to,  laughing  w  his  sleeve  ! 
'Tis  but  decent  to  profess  one's  self  beneath  her. 
Still,  one  must  not  be  too  much  in  earnest  either. 

4. 

Better  sin  the  whole  sin,  sure  that  God  observes, 
Then  go  live  his  life  out !  life  will  try  his  nerves, 
When  the  sky  which  noticed  all,  makes  no  disclosure 
A.nd  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible  composure. 


BEFORE.  193 


5. 


Let  him  pace  at  pleasure,  past  the  walls  of  rose, 
Pluck  their  fruits  when  grape-trees  graze  him  as  he  goes. 
For  he  'gins  to  guess  the  purpose  of  the  garden, 
With  the  sly  mute  thing  beside  there  for  a  warden. 


What 's  the  leopard-dog-thing,  constant  to  his  side, 
A  leer  and  lie  in  every  eye  on  its  obsequious  hide  ? 
When  will  come  an  end  of  all  the  mock  obeisance, 
And  the  price  appear  that  pays  for  the  misfeasance  ? 

7. 

So  much  for  the  culprit.     Who  's  the  martyred  man  ? 
Let  him  bear  one  stroke  more,  for  be  sure  he  can. 
He  that  strove  thus  evil's  lump  with  good  to  leaven, 
Let  him  give  his  blood  at  last  and  get  his  heaven. 


All  or  nothing,  stake  it !  trusts  he  God  or  no  ? 
Thus  far  and  no  further  ?  further  ?  be  it  so. 
Now,  enough  of  your  chicane  of  prudent  pauses, 
Sage  provisos,  sub-intents,  and  saving-clauses. 

9. 

Ah,  "  forgive "  you   bid  him  ?     WTiile    God's  champion 

lives, 

Wrong  shall  be  resisted :  dead,  why  he  forgives. 
But  you  must  not  end  my  friend  ere  you  begin  him  ; 
Evil  stands  not  crowned  on  earth,  while  breath  is  in  hin*. 


196  BEFORE. 

10. 

Once  more  —  Will  the  wronger,  at  this  last  of  all, 
Dare  to  say  "  I  did  wrong,"  rising  in  his  fall  ? 
No  ?  —  Let  go,  then  —  both  the  fighters  to  their  places— 
While  I  count  three,  step  you  back  as  many  paces. 


AFTER. 

TAKE  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at  first 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst. 

ilow  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man ! 

Death  has  done  all  death  can. 
And  absorbed  in  the  new  life  he  leads, 

He  recks  not,  he  heeds 
Nor  his  wrong  nor  my  vengeance  —  both  strike 

On  his  senses  alike, 
And  are  lost  in  the  solemn  and  strange 

Surprise  of  the  change. 
Ha,  what  avails  death  to  erase 

His  offence,  my  disgrace  ? 
I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old 

In  the  field,  by  the  fold  — 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's  scorn 

Were  so  easily  borne. 

1  stand  here  now,  he  lies  ic  his  place  — 
Cover  the  face. 


IN  THREE  DAYS. 

1. 

So,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  — 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  ft  jm  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine,— 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine  ! 

2. 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days ! 
But  nights  —  at  least  the  nights  are  short* 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So,  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her  !  what  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 

3. 

O  Kaded  curls,  release  your  store 
(X  «vrarmth  and  scent  as  once  before 


IN    THREE    DAYS.  109 

The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Out-breaking  into  fairy  sparks 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside 
Thro'  lights  and  darks  how  manifold  — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  Art  embrowned  the  gold. 


What  great  fear  —  should  one  say,  "  Three  days 

That  change  the  world,  might  change  as  well 

Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 

Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell." 

What  small  fear  — if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways ; 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear  !  —  or  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear  ?  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 


IN  A  YEAR. 

1. 

NEVER  any  more 

While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive  — 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

2. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 


IN    A    YEAR.  201 

8. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang, 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 

Then  he  heard. 

4. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet : 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

5. 

«  Speak,  I  love  thee  best ! " 

He  exclaimed. 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell,  —  " 

I  confessed : 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine ! " 


202  IN    A    YKAR. 


Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth  — 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 


That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

8. 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

—  Paid  my  debt ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 

He  should  smile  "  She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 


IN    A    TEAK.  203 

9. 

*  What  —  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  ? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men," 

He  should  smile. 
"  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink  ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ?  " 

10. 
Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God? 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 

1. 

THE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 

The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say. 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate,  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapt,  no  dum  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath,  where,  white  and  wide, 
Washed  by  the  morning's  water-gold, 

Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

2. 

River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 

Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 
And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see, 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised  : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me  ? 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE.  205 


Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so  ? 
Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  endures 

It  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows  know ! 
'Faith  —  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 

To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best, 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 

When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

4. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf, 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  they  never  shed) 

'Twixt  the  aloes  I  used  to  lean  in  chief, 
And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons, 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then, 
In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons, 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her  men. 

5. 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive  — 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow, 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive  ; 
—  With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 

The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 
Jts  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch  — 

Its  face,  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE. 


Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick  pains  I 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  its  brick, 

Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 
—  A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 

7. 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does  \ 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 

Hound  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ; 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope, 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope  ? 

'Tis  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 

8. 

Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you  ! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls  —  can  they  be  quit 
Of  a  world  where  all  their  work  is  to  do, 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little  wit, 
Old  Master  this  and  Early  the  other, 

Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  New  are  fellows, 
That  a  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  Dellos. 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE.  207 


And  here  where  your  praise  would  yield  returns 

And  a  handsome  word  or  two  give  help, 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 
What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  there 

—  Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry, 
Called  Nature's  ape  and  the  world's  despair 

For  his  peerless  painting  (see  Vasari   ? 

10. 
There  he  stands  now.     Study,  my  friends, 

What  a  man's  work  comes  to !  so  he  plans  it, 
Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 

For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  there  's  its  transit ! 
Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labour, 

With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand  is  busy, 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of  their  neighbour ! 

'Tis  looking  downward  makes  one  dizzy. 

11. 

If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your  dole. 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the  goal, 

Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast  in  fructu  — 
The  truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble 
Was  re-uttered,  —  and  Soul  (which  Limbs  betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  were  made  new  in  marble. 


208  OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE. 

12. 

So  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were, 

As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  cannot  be  ; 
And  bringing  your  own  shortcomings  there, 

You  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues'  godhead, 

And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes'  full  sway, 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace  embodied, 

Ajid  your  little  date,  by  their  forms  that  stay. 

13. 

You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say  than  I  am  ? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus. 
You  'd  fain  be  a  model  ?  the  Son  of  Priam 

Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  arid  knees'  use. 
You  're  wroth  —  can  you  slay  your  snake  like  Apollo 

You  're  grieved  —  still  Niobe  's  the  grander  ! 
You  live  —  there  's  the  Racers'  frieze  to  follow  — 

You  die  —  there  's  the  dying  Alexander. 

14. 

So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 

Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 
Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and  length, 

You  learn  —  to  submit  is  the  worsted's  duty. 
—  When  I  say  "  you  "  'tis  the  common  soul, 

The  collective,  I  mean  —  the  race  of  Man 
That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a  whole, 

And  grow  here  according  to  God's  own  plan. 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE.  209 

15. 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them  all, 

You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day, 
Ajid  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we  so  small 

Are  greater,  ay,  greater  the  while  than  they ! 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature  ? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature  ! 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity. 

16. 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range, 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect  —  how  else  ?  they  shall  never  change : 

We  are  faulty  —  why  not  ?  we  have  time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 

With  us  —  we  are  rough-hewn,  nowise  polished  : 
1'hey  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them  abolished. 

17. 

Tis  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 

The  better  !  what 's  come  to  perfection  perishes. 
Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in  heaven. 

Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most  cherishes. 
Thyself  shall  afford  the  example,  Giotto ! 

Thy  one  work,  riot  to  decrease  or  diminish, 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?)   "  O  !  " 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 
14 


210  OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE. 

18. 

Is  it  true,  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter, 

And  what  —  is  depending  on  life's  one  minute  ? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 

Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 
And  Man,  this  step  within  his  endeavour, 

His  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ! 

19. 

On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you  ?  "— • 
Replied,  "  Become  now  self-acquainters, 

And  paint  man,  man,  —  whatever  the  issue  ! 
Make  the  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they  fray, 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters. 
So  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play, 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs  —  what  matters  ?  " 

20. 

Give  these,  I  say,  full  honour  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's  story, 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old,  'tis  no  idle  quiddit 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution 

Which  if  on  the  earth  we  intend  to  acknowledge 
Honour  them  now  —  (ends  my  allocution) 

Nor  confer  our  degree  when  the  folks  leave  college 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE.  211 


There  's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate  — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins  — 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world's  congeries, 

Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series ; 

Only  the  scale  's  to  be  changed,  that 's  all. 

22. 

Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has  seen 

By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best,  [serene, — • 
And  through  earth  and   its  noise,  what  is  heaven's 

When  its  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test  — 
Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 

The  uses  of  labour  are  surely  done. 
There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God, 

And  I  have  had  troubles  enough  for  one. 

23. 

But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  season 

Of  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy, 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan ; 

My  painter  —  who  but  Cimabue  ? 
Nor  ever  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Gbirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So  now  to  my  special  grievance  —  heigh  ho  ! 


212  OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE. 

24. 

Their  ghosts  now  stand,  as  I  said  before, 

Watching  each  fresco  flaked  and  rasped, 
Blocked  out,  knocked  out,,  or  whitewashed  o'er 

—  No  getting  again  what  the  church  has  grasped ! 
The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their  chance, 

"  Works  never  conceded  to  England's  thick  clime  ! " 
(1  hope  they  prefer  their  inhepitance 

Of  a  bucketful  of  Italian  quicklime.) 

25. 

When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a  shaking 

Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusions,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  through  the  black  streets  taking 

Where  many  a  lost  work  breathes  though  badly  — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who  has  merited  ? 

Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures  dree 
Such  doom,  that  a  captive  's  to  be  out-ferreted  ? 

Why  do  they  never  remember  me  ? 

26. 
Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi 

Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric,  bellicose  ; 
Nor  wronged  Lippino  —  and  not  a  word  I 

Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico's. 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco  — • 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with  a  sad  eye : 

No  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  ? 


OLD    PICTLRES    IN    FLORENCE.  213 

27. 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red  cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a  craftsman, 
Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 

Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows  the  draughtsman  t* 
No  Virgin  by  him,  the  somewhat  petty, 

Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly  — 
Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 

Contribute  so  much,  I  ask  him  humbly  ? 

28. 
Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With  the  grave-clothes  garb  and  swaddling  barret, 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a  pet  so, 

You  bald,  saturnine,  poll-clawed  parrot  ?) 
No  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 

Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the  donor  ? 
tf  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 

The  hoarding  does  you  but  little  honour. 

29. 

rhey  pass  :  for  them  the  panels  may  thrill, 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish  — 
Rot  or  are  left  to  the  mercies  still 

Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the  English ! 
Seeing  mere  money's  worth  in  their  prize, 

Who  sell  it  to  some  one  calm  as  Zeno 
At  naked  Art,  and  in  ecstacies 

Before  some  clay-cold,  vile  Carlino  ! 


214  OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCK. 

30. 
No  matter  for  these  !     But  Giotto,  you, 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues  babble  it. 
Never !  it  shall  not  be  counted  true  — 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet 
Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a  lover, — 

Buried  so  long  in  oblivion's  womb, 
Was  left  for  another  than  I  to  discover,  — 

Turns  up  at  last,  and  to  whom  ?  —  to  whom  ? 

31. 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito, 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ?) 
Stood  on  the  altar-steps,  patient  and  weary  too  ! 

Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet,  detur  amanti  ! 
My  Koh-i-noor  —  or  (if  that's  a  platitude) 

Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Soft's  eye  ! 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 

What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy  ? 

32. 

When  the  hour  is  ripe,  and  a  certain  dotard 

Pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoicing, 
To  the  worse  side  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 

Have,  to  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing, 
None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank  cartridge) 

No  civic  guards,  all  plumes  and  lacquer, 
Hunting  Radetzky's  soul  like  a  partridge 

Over  Morello  with  squib  and  cracker. 


OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLOKENCK.  " 

33. 

We  '11  shoot  this  time  better  game  and  bag  'em  hct 

No  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante, 
But  a  kind  of  Witan-agemot 

("  Casa  Guidi,"  quod  videas  ante) 
To  ponder  Freedom  restored  to  Florence, 

How  Art  may  return  that  departed  with  her. 
Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the  Loraine's  ! 

And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna  hither. 

34. 

How  we  shall  prologuize,  how  we  shall  perorate, 

Say  fit  things  upon  art  and  history  — 
Set  truth  at  blood-heat  and  the  false  at  a  zero  rate} 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no  mystery  ! 
Contrast  the  fructuous  and  sterile  eras, 

Show,  monarchy  its  uncouth  cub  licks 
Out  of  the  bear's  shape  to  the  chimcera's  — 

Pure  Art's  birth  being  still  the  republic's  ! 

35. 

Then  one  shall  propose  (in  a  speech,  curt  Tuscan, 

Sober,  expurgate,  spare  of  an  "issimo,") 
Ending  our  half-told  tale  of  Cambuscan, 

Turning  the  Bell-tower's  altaltissimo. 
And  fine  as  the  beak  of  a  young  beccaccia 

The  Campanile,  the  Duomo's  fit  ally, 
Soars  up  in  gold  its  full  fifty  braccia, 

Completing  Florence,  as  Florence,  Italy. 


216  OLD    PICTURES    IN    FLORENCE. 

3G. 

Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 

Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent  fire 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world  unbaffled 

Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the  spire  - 
As,  "  God  and  the  People"  plain  for  its  motto, 

Thence  the  new  tricolor  flaps  at  the  sky  ? 
Foreseeing  the  day  that  vindicates  Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I ! 


IN  A  BALCONY. 

FIRST  PART. 
CONSTANCE  and  NORBEBT. 

NORBERT. 

Now. 

CONSTANCE. 

Not  now. 

NORBERT. 

Give  me  them  again,  those  hands 
Put  them  upon  my  forehead,  how  it  throbs  ! 
Press  them  before  my  eyes,  the  fire  comes  through, 
You  cruellest,  you  dearest  in  the  world, 
Let  me  !  the  Queen  must  grant  whate'er  I  ask  — 
How  can  I  gain  you  and  not  ask  the  Queen  ? 
There  she  stays  waiting  for  me,  here  stand  you. 
Some  time  or  other  this  was  to  be  asked, 


218  IX    A    BALCONY. 

Now  is  the  one  time  —  what  I  ask,  I  gain  — 
Let  me  ask  now,  Love  ! 

CONST  ANCE. 

Do,  and  ruin  us. 

NORBERT. 

Let  it  be  now,  Love  !     All  my  soul  breaks  forth. 
How  I  do  love  you  !  give  my  love  its  way ! 
A  man  can  have  but  one  life  and  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell.     Let  me  fulfil  my  fate  — 
Grant  me  my  heaven  now.     Let  me  know  you  mine, 
Prove  you  mine,  write  my  name  upon  your  brow, 
Hold  you  and  have  you,  anc?  then  die  away 
If  God  please,  with  completion  in  my  soul. 

CONSTANCE. 

I  am  not  yours  then  ?  how  content  this  man  ? 
I  am  not  his,  who  change  into  himself, 
Have  passed  into  his  heart  and  beat  its  beats, 
Who  give  my  hands  to  him,  my  eyes,  my  hair, 
Give  all  that  was  of  me  away  to  him 
So  well,  that  now,  my  spirit  turned  his  own, 
Takes  part  with  him  against  the  woman  here, 
Bids  him  not  stumble  at  so  mere  a  straw 
As  earing  that  the  world  be  cognizant 
How  he  loves  her  and  how  she  worships  him. 
You  have  this  woman,  not  as  yet  that  world. 
Go  on,  I  bid,  nor  stop  to  care  for  me 


IN    A    BALCONY.  219 

By  saving  what  I  cease  to  care  about, 
The  courtly  name  and  pride  of  circumstance  — 
The  name  you  '11  pick  up  and  be  cumbered  with 
Just  for  the  poor  parade's  sake,  nothing  more  ; 
Just  that  the  world  may  slip  from  under  you  — 
Just  that  the  world  may  cry  "  So  much  for  him  — 
The  man  predestined  to  the  heap  of  crowns  ! 
There  goes  his  chance  of  winning  one,  at  least." 

NORBERT. 

The  world ! 

CONSTANCE. 

You  love  it.     Love  me  quite  as  well, 
And  see  if  I  shall  pray  for  this  in  vain  ! 
Why  must  you  ponder  what  it  knows  or  thinks.? 

NORBERT. 

You  pray  for  —  what,  in  vain  ? 

CONSTANCE. 

Oh  my  heart's  heart, 

How  I  do  love  you,  Norbert !  —  that  is  right ! 
But  listen,  or  I  take  my  hands  away. 
You  say,  "  let  it  be  now  "  —  you  would  go  now 
And  tell  the  Queen,  perhaps  six  steps  from  us, 
You  love  me  —  so  you  do,  thank  God  ! 

NORBERT. 

Thank  God ! 


220  IN   A    BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE. 

Yes,  Norbert,  —  but  you  fain  would  tell  your  love, 

And,  what  succeeds  the  telling,  ask  of  her 

My  hand.     Now  take  this  rose  and  look  at  it, 

Listening  to  me.     You  are  the  minister,  ~ 

The  Queen's  first  favourite,  nor  without  a  cause. 

To-night  completes  your  wonderful  year's-work 

(This  palace-feast  is  held  to  celebrate) 

Made  memorable  by  her  life's  success, 

That  junction  of  two  crowns  on  her  sole  head 

Her  house  had  only  dreamed  of  anciently. 

That  this  mere  dream  is  grown  a  stable  truth 

To-night's  feast  makes  authentic.     Whose  the  praise  ? 

Whose  genius,  patience,  energy,  achieved 

What  turned  the  many  heads  and  broke  the  hearts  ? 

You  are  the  fate  —  your  minute  's  in  the  heaven. 

Next  comes  the  Queen's  turn.     Name  your  own  reward 

With  leave  to  clench  the  past,  chain  the  to-come, 

Put  out  an  arm  and  touch  and  take  the  sun 

And  fix  it  ever  full-faced  on  your  earth, 

Possess  yourself  supremely  of  her  life, 

You  choose  the  single  thing  she  will  not  grant  — 

The  very  declaration  of  which  choice 

Will  turn  the  scale  and  neutralize  your  work. 

At  best  she  will  forgive  you,  if  she  can. 

You  think  I  '11  let  you  choose  —  her  cousin's  hand  ? 

NORBERT. 

Wait.     First,  do  you  retain  your  old  belief 
The  Queen  is  generous  —  nay,  is  just  ? 


IN    A    BALCONY.  221 

CONSTANCE. 

There,  there  ! 

So  men  make  women  love  them,  while  they  know 
No  more  of  women's  hearts  than  .  .  .  look  you  here, 
You  that  are  just  and  generous  beside, 
Make  it  your  own  case.     For  example  now, 
I'll  say  —  I  let  you  kiss  me  and  hold  my  hands  — 
Why  ?  do  you  know  why  ?  I  '11  instruct  you,  then  — 
The  kiss,  because  you  have  a  name  at  court, 
This  hand  and  this,  that  you  may  shut  in  each 
A  jewel,  if  you  please  to  pick  up  such. 
That 's  horrible  !     Apply  it  to  the  Queen  — 
Suppose,  I  am  the  Queen  to  whom  you  speak. 
"  I  was  a  nameless  man  :  you  needed  me  : 
Why  did  I  proffer  you  my  aid  ?  there  stood 
A  certain  pretty  Cousin  at  your  side. 
Why  did  I  make  such  common  cause  with  you  ? 
Access  to  her  had  not  been  easy  else. 
You  give  my  labours  here  abundant  praise : 
'Faith,  labour,  while  she  overlooked,  grew  play. 
How  shall  your  gratitude  discharge  itself? 
Give  me  her  hand ! " 

NORBERT. 

And  still  I  urge  the  same. 
Is  the  Queen  just  ?  just  —  generous  or  no  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Yes,  just.     You  love  a  rose  —  no  harm  in  that  — 


222  IN    A    BALCONY 

But  was  it  for  the  rose's  sake  or  mine 

You  put  it  in  your  bosom  ?  mine,  you  said  — 

Then  mine  you  still  must  say  or  else  be  false. 

You  told  the  Queen  you  served  her  for  herself: 

If  so,  to  serve  her  was  to  serve  yourself 

She  thinks,  for  all  your  unbelieving  face ! 

I  know  her.     In  the  hall,  six  steps  from  us, 

One  sees  the  twenty  pictures  —  there  's  a  life 

Better  than  life  —  and  yet  no  life  at  all ; 

Conceive  her  born  in  such  a  magic  dome, 

Pictures  all  round  her !  why,  she  sees  the  world, 

Can  recognize  its  given  things  and  facts, 

The  fight  of  giants  or  the  feast  of  gods, 

Sages  in  senate,  beauties  at  the  bath, 

Chaces  and  battles,  the  whole  earth's  display, 

Landscape  and  sea-piece,  down  to  flowers  and  fruit 

And  who  shall  question  that  she  knows  them  all 

In  better  semblance  than  the  things  outside  ? 

Yet  bring  into  the  silent  gallery 

Some  live  thing  to  contrast  in  breath  and  blood, 

Some  lion  with  the  painted  lion  there  — 

You  think  she  '11  understand  composedly  ? 

• —  Say,  "  that 's  his  fellow  in  the  hunting-piece 

Yonder,  I  've  turned  to  praise  a  hundred  times  ?  " 

Not  so.     Her  knowledge  of  our  actual  earth, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  concerns  and  sympathies, 

Must  be  too  far,  too  mediate,  too  unreal. 

The  real  exists  for  us  outside,  not  her  — 

How  should  it,  with  that  life  in  these  four  walls, 


IN    A    BALCONY. 


223 


That  father  and  that  mother,  first  to  last 

No  father  and  no  mother  —  friends,  a  heap, 

Lovers,  no  lack  —  a  husband  in  due  time, 

And  every  one  of  them  alike  a  lie  ! 

Things  painted  by  a  Rubens  out  of  nought 

Into  what  kindness,  friendship,  love  should  be ; 

All  better,  all  more  grandiose  than  life, 

Only  no  life  ;  mere  cloth  and  surface-paint 

You  feel  while  you  admire.     How  should  she  feel  ? 

And  now  that  she  has  stood  thus  fifty  years 

The  sole  spectator  in  that  gallery, 

You  think  to  bring  this  warm  real  struggling  love 

In  to  her  of  a  sudden,  and  suppose 

She  '11  keep  her  state  untroubled  ?    Here  's  the  truth  — 

She  '11  apprehend  its  value  at  a  glance, 

Prefer  it  to  the  pictured  loyalty  ! 

You  only  have  to  say  "  so  men  are  made, 

For  this  they  act,  the  thing  has  many  names 

But  this  the  right  one  —  and  now,  Queen,  be  just ! " 

And  life  slips  back  —  you  lose  her  at  the  word  — 

You  do  not  even  for  amends  gain  me. 

He  will  not  understand     oh,  Norbert,  Norbert, 

Do  you  not  understand  ? 

NORBERT. 

The  Queen 's  the  Queen, 
I  am  myself —  no  picture,  but  alive 
In  every  nerve  and  every  muscle,  here 
At  the  palace-window  or  in  the  people's  street, 
As  she  in  the  gallery  where  the  pictures  glow. 


224  IN    A    BALCONY. 

The  good  of  life  is  precious  to  us  both. 

She  cannot  love  —  what  do  I  want  with  rule  ? 

When  first  I  saw  your  face  a  year  ago 

I  knew  my  life  's  good  —  my  soul  heard  one  voice 

"  The  woman  yonder,  there 's  no  use  of  life 

But  just  to  obtain  her !  heap  earth's  woes  in  one 

And  bear  them  —  make  a  pile  of  all  earth's  joys 

And  spurn  them,  as  they  help  or  help  not  here ; 

Only,  obtain  her  !  "  —  How  was  it  to  be  ? 

I  found  she  was  the  cousin  of  the  Queen  ; 

I  must  then  serve  the  Queen  to  get  to  her  — 

No  other  way.     Suppose  there  had  been  one, 

And  I  by  saying  prayers  to  some  white  star 

With  promise  of  my  body  and  my  soul 

Might  gain  you,  —  should  I  pray  the  star  or  no  ? 

Instead,  there  was  the  Queen  to  serve !  I  served, 

And  did  what  other  servants  failed  to  do. 

Neither  she  sought  nor  I  declared  my  end. 

Her  good  is  hers,  my  recompense  be  mine, 

And  let  me  name  you  as  that  recompense. 

She  dreamed  that  such  a  tiling  could  never  be  ? 

Let  her  wake  now.     She  thinks  there  was  some  cause 

The  love  of  power,  of  fame,  pure  loyalty  ? 

—  Perhaps  she  fancies  men  wear  out  their  lives 

Chasing  such  shades.     Then  I  've  a  fancy  too. 

I  worked  because  I  want  you  with  my  soul  — 

I  therefore  ask  your  hand.     Let  it  be  now. 

CONSTANCE. 

Had  I  not  loved  you  from  the  very  first, 


IN    A    BALCONY.  225 

"Were  I  not  yours,  could  we  not  steal  out  thus 
So  wickedly,  so  wildly,  and  so  well, 
You  might  be  thus  impatient.     What  's  conceived 
Of  us  without  here,  by  the  folks  within  ? 
Where  are  you  now  ?  immersed  in  cares  of  state  — 
Where  am  I  now  ?  —  intent  on  festal  robes  — 
We  two,  embracing  under  death's  spread  hand  ! 
What  was  this  thought  for,  what  this  scruple  of  yours 
Which  broke  the  council  up,  to  bring  about 
One  minute's  meeting  in  the  corridor  ? 
And  then  the  sudden  sleights,  long  secresies, 
The  plots  inscrutable,  deep  telegraphs, 
Long-planned  chance-meetings,  hazards  of  a  look, 
"  Does  she  know  ?  does  she  not  know?  saved  or  lost  ?* 
A  year  of  this  compassion's  ecstasy 
All  goes  for  nothing  ?  you  would  give  this  up 
For  the  old  way,  the  open  way,  the  world's, 
His  way  who  beats,  and  his  who  sells  his  wife  ? 
What  tempts  you  ?  their  notorious  happiness, 
That  you  're  ashamed  of  ours  ?     The  best  you  '11  get 
Will  be,  the  Queen  grants  all  that  you  require, 
Concedes  the  cousin,  and  gets  rid  of  you 
And  her  at  once,  and  gives  us  ample  leave 
To  live  as  our  five  hundred  happy  friends. 
The  world  will  show  us  with  officious  hand 
Our  chamber-entry  and  stand  sentinel, 
When  we  so  oft  have  stolen  across  her  traps  ! 
Get  the  world's  warrant,  ring  the  falcon's  foot, 
And  make  it  duty  to  be  bold  and  swift, 
15 


226  IN  A 


When  long  ago  'twas  nature.     Have  it  so  ! 
He  never  hawked  by  rights  till  flung  from  fist  ? 
Oh,  the  man's  thought !  —  no  woman 's  such  a  fool. 

NOIIIJERT. 

Yes,  the  man's  thought  and  my  thought,  which  is  inoro — 

One  made  to  love  you,  let  the  world  take  note. 

Have  I  done  worthy  work  ?  be  love's  the  praise, 

Though  hampered  by  restrictions,  barred  against 

By  set  forms,  blinded  by  forced  secresies. 

Set  free  my  love,  and  see  what  love  will  do 

Shown  in  my  life  —  what  work  will  spring  from  that 

The  world  is  used  to  have  its  business  done 

On  other  grounds,  find  great  effects  produced 

For  power's  sake,  fame's  sake,  motives  you  have  named 

So  good.     But  let  my  low  ground  shame  their  high. 

Truth  is  the  strong  thing.     Let  man's  life  be  true  ! 

And  love 's  the  truth  of  mine.     Time  prove  the  rest ! 

I  choose  to  have  you  stamped  all  over  me, 

Your  name  upon  my  forehead  and  my  breast, 

You,  from  the  sword's  blade  to  the  ribbon's  edge, 

That  men  may  see,  all  over,  you  in  me  — 

That  pale  loves  may  die  out  of  their  pretence 

In  face  of  mine,  shames  thrown  on  love  fall  off — 

Permit  this,  Constance  !     Love  has  been  so  long 

Subdued  in  me,  eating  me  through  and  through, 

That  now  it 's  all  of  me  and  must  have  way. 

Think  of  my  work,  that  chaos  of  intrigues, 

Those  hopes  and  fears,  surprises  and  delays, 


IN    A    BALCONY.  227 

That  long  endeavour,  earnest,  patient,  slow, 

Trembling  at  last  to  its  assured  result  — 

Then  think  of  this  revulsion.     I  resume 

Life,  after  death,  (it  is  no  less  than  life 

After  such  long  unlovely  labouring  days) 

And  liberate  to  beauty  life's  great  need 

Of  the  beautiful,  which,  while  it  prompted  work, 

Supprest  itself  ere  while.     This  eve  's  the  time  — • 

This  eve  intense  with  yon  first  trembling  star 

We  seem  to  pant  and  reach  ;  scarce  aught  between 

The  earth  that  rises  and  the  heaven  that  bends  — 

All  nature  self-abandoned  —  every  tree 

Flung  as  it  will,  pursuing  its  own  thoughts 

And  fixed  so,  every  flower  and  every  weed, 

No  pride,  no  shame,  no  victory,  no  defeat : 

All  under  God,  each  measured  by  itself! 

These  statues  round  us,  each  abrupt,  distinct, 

The  strong  in  strength,  the  weak  in  weakness  fixed, 

The  Muse  forever  wedded  to  her  lyre, 

The  Nymph  to  her  fawn,  the  Silence  to  her  rose, 

And  God's  approval  on  his  universe  ! 

Let  us  do  so  —  aspire  to  live  as  these 

In  harmony  with  truth,  ourselves  being  true. 

Take  the  first  way,  and  let  the  second  come. 

My  first  is  to  possess  myself  of  you  ; 

The  music  sets  the  march-step  — forward  then  ! 

And  there  's  the  Queen,  I  go  to  claim  you  of, 

The  world  to  witness,  wonder  and  applaud. 

Our  flower  of  life  breaks  open.     No  delay  ! 


225  IN    A    BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE. 

And  so  shall  we  be  ruined,  both  of  us. 

Norbert,  I  know  her  to  the  skin  and  bone  — - 

You  do  not  know  her,  were  not  born  to  it, 

To  feel  what  she  can  see  or  cannot  see. 

Love,  she  is  generous,  — •  ay,  despite  your  smile. 

Generous  as  you  are.     For,  in  that  thin  frame 

Pain-twisted,  punctured  through  and  through  with  careSj 

There  lived  a  lavish  soul  until  it  starved 

Debarred  all  healthy  food.     Look  to  the  soul  — 

Pity  that,  stoop  to  that,  ere  you  begin 

(The  true  man's  way)  on  justice  and  your  rights, 

Exactions  and  acquittance  of  the  past. 

Begin  so  —  see  what  justice  she  will  deal ! 

We  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

Suppose  her  some  poor  keeper  of  a  school 

Whose  business  is  to  sit  thro'  summer-months 

And  dole  out  children's  leave  to  go  and  play, 

Herself  superior  to  such  lightness  —  she 

In  the  arm-chair's  state  and  paedagogic  pomp, 

To  the  life,  the  laughter,  sun  and  youth  outside  — 

We  wonder  such  an  one  looks  black  on  us  ? 

I  do  not  bid  you  wake  her  tenderness, 

—  That  were  vain  truly  —  none  is  left  to  wake  — 

1>  it,  hit  hor  think  her  justice  is  engaged 

To  take  the  shape  of  tenderness,  and  mark 

If  she  '11  not  coldly  do  its  warmest  deed  ! 

Does  she  love  me,  I  ask  you  ?  not  a  whit. 

Yet,  thinking  that  her  justice  was  engaged 


IX    A    BALCONY.  229 

To  help  a  kinswoman,  she  took  me  up  — 

Did  more  on  that  bare  ground  than  other  lovea 

Would  do  on  greater  argument.     For  me, 

I  have  no  equivalent  of  that  cold  kind 

To  pay  her  with  ;  my  love  alone  to  give 

If  I  give  any  thing.     I  give  her  love. 

I  feel  I  ought  to  help  her,  and  I  will. 

So  for  her  sake,  as  yours,  I  tell  you  twice 

That  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

If  I  were  you,  I  could  obtain  this  grace  — 

Would  lay  the  whole  I  did  to  love's  account, 

Nor  yet  be  very  false  as  courtiers  go  — 

Declare  that  my  success  was  recompense  ; 

It  would  be  so,  in  fact :  what  were  it  else  ? 

And  then,  once  loosed  her  generosity 

As  you  will  mark  it  —  then,  —  were  I  but  you 

To  turn  it,  let  it  seem  to  move  itself, 

And  make  it  give  the  thing  I  really  take, 

Accepting  so,  in  the  poor  cousin's  hand, 

All  value  as  the  next  thing  to  the  queen  — 

Since  none  loves  her  directly,  none  dares  that ! 

A  shadow  of  a  thing,  a  name's  mere  echo 

Suffices  those  who  miss  the  name  and  thing  ; 

You  pick  up  just  a  ribbon  she  has  Avorn 

To  keep  in  proof  how  near  her  breath  you  came. 

Say  I  'm  so  near  I  seem  a  piece  of  her  — 

Ask  for  me  that  way  —  (oh,  you  understand) 

And  find  the  same  gift  yielded  with  a  grace. 

Which  if  you  make  the  least  show  to  extort 


L'JO  IN    A    BALCOXY. 

—  You  '11  see  !  and  when  you  have  ruined  both  of  us, 
Disertate  on  the  Queen's  ingratitude  ! 

NORBERT. 

Then,  if  I  turn  it  that  way,  you  consent  ? 
'Tis  not  my  way ;  I  have  more  hope  in  truth. 
Still,  if  you  won't  have  truth  —  wrhy,  this  indeed, 
Is  scarcely  false,  I  '11  so  express  the  sense. 
Will  you  remain  here  ? 

CONSTANCE. 

O  best  heart  of  mine, 

How  I  have  loved  you  !  then,  you  take  my  way  ? 
Are  mine  as  you  have  been  her  minister, 
Work  out  my  thought,  give  it  effect  for  me, 
Paint  plain  my  poor  conceit  and  make  it  serve  ? 
I  owe  that  withered  woman  every  thing  — 
Life,  fortune,  you,  remember  !     Take  my  part  — 
Help  me  to  pay  her  !     Stand  upon  your  rights  ? 
You,  with  my  rose,  my  hands,  my  heart  on  you  ? 
Your  rights  are  mine  —  you  have  no  rights  but  mine. 

NORBERT. 

Remain  here.     How  you  know  me  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Ah,  but  still 

[He  breaks  from  her:  she  remains.     Dance-mu*it 
from  within. 


SECOND   J^AUT. 

Enter  the  QUEEN. 

QUEEN. 

Constance  '  —  She  is  here  as  he  said.     Speak  !  quick ! 
Is  it  so  ?  is  it  true  —  or  false  ?     One  word  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

True. 

QUEEN. 

Mercifullest  Mother,  thanks  to  thee  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Madam ! 

QUEEN. 

I  love  you,  Constance,  from  my  soult 
Now  say  once  more,  with  any  words  you  will, 
'Tis  true  —  all  true  — as  true  as  that  I  speak. 


232  IN    A    BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE. 

Why  .should  you  doubt  it  ? 

QUEEN. 

Ah,  why  doubt  ?   why  doubt  ? 
Dear,  make  me  see  it.     Do  you  see  it  so  ? 
None  see  themselves  —  another  sees  them  best. 
Yon  say  "  why  doubt  it  ?  "  —  you  see  him  and  me. 
It  is  because  the  Mother  has  such  grace 
That  if  we  had  but  faith  —  wherein  we  fail  — 
Whate'er  we  yearn  for  would  be  granted  us  ; 
Ilowbuit  we  let  our  whims  prescribe  despair, 
Our  very  fancies  thwart  and  cramp  our  will, 
And  so  accepting  life,  abjure  ourselves  I 
Constance,  I  had  abjured  the  hope  of  love 
And  of  being  loved,  as  truly  as  yon  palm 
The  hope  of  seeing  Egypt  from  that  turf. 

CONSTANCE. 

Heaven  ! 

QUEEN. 

But  it  was  so,  Constance,  it  was  so. 
Men  say  —  or  do  men  say  it  ?  fancies  say  — 
"  Stop  here,  your  life  is  set,  you  are  grown  old. 
Too  late  —  no  love  for  you,  too  late  for  love  — 
Leave  love  to  girls.     Be  queen  —  let  Constance  love  ! " 
One  takes  the  hint  —  half  meets  it  like  a  child, 
Ashamed  at  any  feelings  that  oppose. 


IX    A    BALCONY. 

'  Oh,  love,  true,  never  think  of  love  again  ! 
I  am  a  queen  —  I  rule,  not  love,  indeed." 
S'~»  it  goes  on  ;  so  a  face  grows  like  this, 
Hair  like  this  hair,  poor  arms  as  lean  as  these, 
Till,  —  nay,  it  does  not  end  so,  I  thank  God  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

I  cannot  understand 

QUEEN. 

The  happier  you  ! 

Constance,  I  know  not  how  it  is  with  men. 
For  women,  (I  am  a  woman  now  like  you) 
There  is  no  good  of  life  but  love  —  but  love  ! 
What  else  looks  good,  is  some  shade  flung  from  love  — • 
Love  gilds  it,  gives  it  worth.     Be  warned  by  me, 
Never  you  cheat  yourself  one  instant.     Love, 
Give  love,  ask  only  love,  and  leave  the  rest ! 

0  Constance,  how  I  love  you  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

I  love  you. 

QUEEN. 

1  do  believe  that  all  is  come  through  you. 
I  took  you  to  my  heart  to  keep  it  warm 

When  the  last  chance  of  love  seemed  dead  in  me  ; 

I  thought  your  fresh  youth  warmed  my  withered  heart. 


234  IN    A    BALCONY. 

Oh,  I  am  very  old  now,  am  I  not  ? 
Not  so  !  it  is  true  and  it  shall  be  true ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Tell  it  ine !  let  me  judge  if  true  or  false. 

QUEEN, 

Ah,  but  I  fear  you  —  you  will  look  at  me 
And  say  "  she  's  old,  she  's  grown  unlovely  quite 
Who  ne'er  was  beauteous !  men  want  beauty  still." 
Well,  so  I  feared  —  the  curse  !  so  I  felt  sure. 

CONSTANCE. 

Be  calm.     And  now  you  feel  not  sure,  you  say  ? 

QUEEN. 

Constance,  he  came,  the  coming  was  not  strange  — 
Do  not  I  stand  and  see  men  come  and  go  ? 
I  turned  a  half-look  from  my  pedestal 
Where  I  grow  marble  —  "  one  young  man  the  more  ! 
He  will  love  some  one,  —  that  is  nought  to  me  — 
What  would  he  with  my  marble  stateliness  ?  " 
Yet  this  seemed  somewhat  worse  than  heretofore  ; 
The  m:in  more  gracious,  youthful,  like  a  god, 
And  I  still  older,  with  less  flesh  to  change  — 
We  two  those  dear  extremes  that  long  to  touch. 
It  seemed  still  harder  when  he  first  began 
Absorbed  to  labour  at  the  state-affairs 


IN    A    B  A  LOONY. 


230 


The  old  way  fo.'  the  uld  end,  interest. 

Oh,  to  live  with  a  thousand  beating  hearts 

Around  you,  swift  eyes,  serviceable  hands, 

Professing  they  've  no  care  but  for  your  cause, 

Thought  but  to  help  you,  love  but  for  yourself, 

And  you  the  marble  statue  all  the  time 

They  praise  and  point  at  as  preferred  to  life, 

Yet  leave  for  the  first  breathing  woman's  cheek, 

First  dancer's,  gypsy's,  or  street  baladine's  ! 

Why,  how  I  have  ground  my  teeth  to  hear  men'*   speech 

Stifled  for  fear  it  should  alarm  my  ear, 

Their  gait  subdued  lest  step  should  startle  me, 

Their  eyes  declined,  such  queendorn  to  respect, 

Their  hands  alert,  such  treasure  to  preserve, 

While  not  a  man  of  these  broke  rank  and  spoke, 

Or  wrote  me  a  vulgar  letter  all  of  love, 

Or  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  like  a  hand. 

There  have  been  moments,  if  the  sentinel 

Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 

Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 

I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul. 

CONSTANCE. 

Who  could  have  comprehended ! 

QUEEN. 

Ay,  who  —  who  ? 

Why,  no  one,  Constance,  but  this  one  who  did. 
Not  they,  not  you,  not  I.     Even  now  perhaps 
It  comes  too  late —  would  you  but  tell  the  truth. 


2J6  IIS    A    BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE 

I  wait  to  tell  it. 

QUEEN. 

Well,  you  see,  he  came, 
Outfaced  the  others,  did  a  work  this  year 
Kxceeds  in  value  all  was  ever  done 
You  know —  it  is  not  I  who  say  it  —  all 
Say  it.     And  so  (a  second  pang  and  worse) 
1  grew  aware  not  only  of  what  he  did, 
But  why  so  wondrously.     Oh,  never  work 
Like  his  was  done  for  work's  ignoble  sake  — 
It  must  have  finer  aims  to  spur  it  on  ! 
1  felt,  I  saw  he  loved  —  loved  somebody. 
And  Constance,  my  dear  Constance,  do  you  know, 
I  did  believe  this  while  'twas  you  he  loved. 

CONSTANCE. 

Me,  madam  ? 

QUEEN. 

It  did  seem  to  me  your  face 

Met  him  where'er  he  looked  :  and  whom  but  you 
Was  such  a  man  to  love  ?  it  seemed  to  me 
You  saw  he  loved  you,  and  approved  the  love, 
And  that  you  both  were  in  intelligence. 
Y"ou  could  not  loiter  in  the  garden,  step 
Into  this  balcony,  but  I  straight  was  stung 
And  forced  to  understand.     It  seemed  so  true. 


IX    A    BALCONY.  ~i> 

So  right,  so  beautiful,  so  like  you  both 

That  all  this  work  should  have  been  done  by  him 

Not  for  the  vulgar  hope  of  recompense, 

But  that  at  last  —  suppose  some  night  like  this  — • 

Borne  on  to  claim  his  due  reward  of  me 

He  might  say,  "  Give  her  hand  and  pay  me  so." 

And  I  (O  Constance,  you  shall  love  me  now) 

1  thought,  surmounting  all  the  bitterness, 

—  "  And  he  shall  have  it.     I  will  make  her  blest, 

My  flower  of  youth,  my  woman's  self  that  was, 

My  happiest  woman's  self  that  might  have  been  ! 

These  two  shall  have  their  joy  and  leave  me  here." 

Yes  —  yes  — 

CONSTANCE. 

Thanks ! 

QUEEN. 

And  the  word  was  on  my  lipa 
When  he  burst  in  upon  me.     I  looked  to  hear 
A  mere  calm  statement  of  his  just  desire 
In  payment  of  his  labour.     When,  0  Heaven, 
How  can  I  tell  you  ?  cloud  was  on  my  eyes 
And  thunder  in  my  ears  at  that  first  word 
Which  told  'twas  love  of  me,  of  me,  did  all  — - 
He  loved  me  —  from  the  first  step  to  the  last, 
Loved  me  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

You  did  not  hear  .  .  .  you  thought  he  spoke 
Of  love  ?  what  if  you  should  mistake  ? 


238  IN    A    BALCONY. 

QUEKN. 

No,  no  — 

No  mistake  !     Ha,  there  shall  be  no  mistake  ! 
He  had  not  dared  to  hint  the  love  he  felt  — 
You  were  my  reflex  —  how  I  understood  ! 
He  said  you  were  the  ribbon  I  had  worn, 
He  kissed  my  hand,  he  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  love,  love  was  the  end  of  every  phrase. 
Love  is  begun  —  this  much  is  come  to  pass, 
The  rest  is  easy.     Constance,  I  am  yours  — 
I  will  learn,  I  will  place  my  life  on  you, 
But  teach  me  how  to  keep  what  I  have  won. 
Am  I  so  old  ?  this  hair  was  early  gray  ; 
But  joy  ere  now  has  brought  hair  brown  again, 
And  joy  will  bring  the  cheek's  red  back,  I  fee]. 
I  could  sing  once  too  ;  that  was  in  my  youth. 
Still,  when  men  paint  me,  they  declare  me  ...  yes, 
Beautiful  —  for  the  last  French  painter  did  ! 
I  know  they  flatter  somewhat ;  you  are  frank  — 
I  trust  you.      How  I  loved  you  from  the  first ! 
Some  queens  would  hardly  seek  a  cousin  out 
And  set  her  by  their  side  to  take  the  eye  : 
I  must  have  felt  that  good  would  come  from  you. 
I  am  not  generous  —  like  him  —  like  you  ! 
But  he  is  not  your  lover  after  all  — 
It  was  not  you  he  looked  at.     Saw  you  him  ? 
You  have  not  been  mistaking  words  or  looks  ? 
lie  paid  you  were  the  reflex  of  myself  — 
And  yet  he  is  not  such  a  paragon 
To  you,  to  younger  women  who  may  choose 


IN    A    BALCONY. 

Among  a  thousand  Norberts.     Speak  the  truth  ! 
You  know  you  never  named  his  name  to  me  — 
You  know,  I  cannot  give  him  up  —  ah  God. 
Not  up  now,  even  to  you  ' 

COXSTANCE. 

Then  calm  yourself. 

QUEEN. 

See,  I  am  old  —  look  here,  you  happy  girl, 
I  will  not  play  the  fool,  deceive  myself; 
'Tis  all  gone  —  put  your  cheek  beside  my  cheek  - 
Ah,  what  a  contrast  does  the  moon  behold  ! 
But  then  I  set  my  life  upon  one  chance, 
The  last  chance  and  the  best  —  am  /not  left, 
My  soul,  myself?     All  women  love  great  men 
If  young  or  old  —  it  is  in  all  the  tales  — 
Young  beauties  love  old  poets  who  can  love  — 
"Why  should  not  he  the  poems  in  my  soul, 
The  love,  the  passionate  faith,  the  sacrifice, 
The  constancy  ?     I  throw  them  at  his  feet. 
Who  cares  to  see  the  fountain's  very  shape 
And  whether  it  be  a  Triton's  or  a  Nymph's 
That  pours  the  foam,  makes  rainbows  all  around  ? 
You  could  not  praise  indeed  the  empty  conch  ; 
But  1  '11  pour  floods  of  love  and  hide  myself. 
How  I  will  love  him  !  cannot  men  love  love  9 
Who  was  a  queen  and  loved  a  poet  once 
Humpbacked,  a  dwarf?  ah,  women  can  do  that! 


2  If>  IX    A    BALCONY. 

Well,  but  men  too  !  at  least,  they  tell  you  so. 
They  love  so  many  women  in  their  youth, 
And  even  in  age  they  all  love  whom  they  please  : 
And  yet  the  best  of  them  confide  to  friends 
That  'tis  not  beauty  makes  the  lasting  love  — 
They  spend  a  day  with  such  and  tire  the  next  ; 
They  like  soul,  —  well  then,  they  like  phantasy, 
Novelty  even.     Let  us  confess  the  truth 
Horrible  though  it  be  —  that  prejudice, 
Prescription  .  .  .  Curses  !  they  will  love  a  queen. 
They  will  —  they  do.     And  will  not,  does  not  —  he  ? 

CONSTANCE. 

How  can  he  ?  You  are  wedded  —  'tis  a  name 
We  know,  but  still  a  bond.     Your  rank  remains, 
His  rank  remains.     How  can  he,  nobly  sou  led 
As  you  believe  and  I  incline  to  think, 
Aspire  to  be  your  favourite,  shame  and  all  ? 

QUEEN. 

Hear  her!  there,  there  now  —  could  she  love  like  me? 

What  did  I  say  of  smooth-cheeked  youth  and  grace  ? 

See  all  it  docs  or  could  do !  so,  youth  loves  ! 

Oli,  tell  him,  Constance,  you  could  never  do 

What  I  will  —  you,  it  was  not  born  in  !  I 

Will  drive  these  difficulties  far  and  fast 

As  yonder  mists  curdling  before  the  moon. 

I  '11  use  my  light  too,  gloriously  retrieve 

My  youth  from  its  enforced  calamity, 


IN    A    BALCONY. 

Dissolve  that  hateful  marriage,  and  be  his, 
His  own  in  the  eyes  alike  of  God  and  man. 

CONSTANCE. 

5Tou  will  do  —  dare  do  —  Pause  on  what  you  say  ! 

QUEEN. 

Hear  her  !  I  thank  you,  Sweet,  for  that  surprise. 
You  have  the  fair  face  :  for  the  soul,  see  mine  ! 
I  have  the  strong  soul :  let  me  teach  you,  here. 
I  think  I  have  borne  enough  and  long  enough, 
And  patiently  enough,  the  world  remarks, 
To  have  my  own  way  now,  unblamed  by  all. 
It  does  so  happen,  I  rejoice  for  it, 
This  most  unhoped-for  issue  cuts  the  knot. 
There 's  not  a  better  way  of  settling  claims 
Than  this  ;  God  sends  the  accident  express  ; 
And  were  it  for  my'  subjects'  good,  no  more, 
'Twere  best  thus  ordered.     I  am  thankful  now, 
Mute,  passive,  acquiescent.     I  receive, 
And  bless  God  simply,  or  should  almost  fear 
To  walk  so  smoothly  to  my  ends  at  last. 
Why,  how  I  baffle  obstacles,  spurn  fate ! 
How  strong  I  am !  could  Norbert  see  me  now ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Let  me  consider.     It  is  all  too  strange. 
16 


211 


242  IN    A    BALCONY. 

QDEEX. 

You,  Constance,  learn  of  me  ;  do  you,  like  me. 
You  are  young,  beautiful :  my  own,  best  girl, 
You  will  have  many  lovers,  and  love  one  — 
Light  hair,  not  hair  like  Norbert's,  to  suit  yours, 
And  taller  than  he  is,  for  you  are  tall. 
Love  him  like  me  !  give  all  away  to  him  ; 
Think  never  of  yourself;  throw  by  your  pride, 
Hope,  fear,  —  your  own  good  as  you  saw  it  once, 
And  love  him  simply  for  his  very  self. 
Remember,  I  (and  what  am  I  to  you  ?) 
Would  give  up  all  for  one,  leave  throne,  lose  life, 
Do  all  but  just  unlove  him !  he  loves  me. 

CONSTANCE. 

He  shall. 

QUEEN. 

You,  step  inside  my  inmost  heart. 
Give  me  your  own  heart  —  let  us  have  one  heart  — 
I  '11  come  to  you  for  counsel ;  "  This  he  says, 
This  he  does,  what  should  this  amount  to,  pray  ? 
Beseech  you,  change  it  into  current  coin. 
Is  that  worth  kisses  ?  shall  I  please  him  there  ?  " 
And  then  we  '11  speak  in  turn  of  you  —  what  else  ? 
Your  love  (according  to  your  beauty's  worth) 
For  you  shall  have  some  noble  love,  all  gold  — 
Whom  choose  you  ?  we  will  get  him  at  your  choice. 


IN    A    BALCONY. 


243 


—  Constance,  I  leave  you.     Just  a  minute  since 

I  felt  as  I  must  die  or  be  alone 

Breathing  my  soul  into  an  ear  like  yours. 

Now,  I  would  face  the  world  with  my  new  life, 

With  my  new  crown.     I  '11  walk  around  the  rooms, 

And  then  come  back  and  tell  you  how  it  feels. 

How  soon  a  smile  of  God  can  change  the  world ! 

How  we  are  all  made  for  happiness  —  how  work 

Grows  play,  adversity  a  winning  fight ! 

True,  I  have  lost  so  many  years.     What  then  ? 

Many  remain  —  God  has  been  very  good. 

You,  stay  here.     Tis  as  different  from  dreams,  — 

From  the  mind's  cold  calm  estimate  of  bliss, 

As  these  stone  statues  from  the  flesh  and  blood. 

The  comfort  thou  hast  caused  mankind,  God's  moon ! 

[She  goes  out.     Dance-music  from  within 


PART   THIRD. 

NORBERT  enters. 

NORBERT. 

Well !  we  have  but  one  minute  and  one  word 

CONSTANCE. 

I  am  yours,  Norbert ! 

NORBERT. 

Yes,  mine. 

CONSTANCE. 

Not  til]  now 
You  were  mine.     Now  I  give  myself  to  you. 

NORBERT. 

Constance ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Your  own  !  I  know  the  thriftier  way 
Of  giving  —  haply,  'tis  the  wiser  way. 


/N    A    BALCONF. 

Meaning  to  give  a  treasure,  I  might  dole 
Coin  after  coin  out  (each,  as  that  were  all, 
With  a  new  largess  still  at  each  despair) 
And  force  you  keep  in  sight  the  deed,  reserve 
Exhaustless  till  the  end  my  part  and  yours, 
My  giving  and  your  taking,  both  our  joys 
Dying  together.     Is  it  the  wiser  way  ? 
I  choose  the  simpler ;  I  give  all  at  once. 
Know  what  you  have  to  trust  to,  trade  upon. 
Use  it,  abuse  it, —  any  thing  but  say 
Hereafter,  "  Had  I  known  she  loved  me  so, 
And  what  my  means,  I  might  have  thriven  with  it. 
This  is  your  means.     I  give  you  all  myself. 


I  take  you  and  thank  God. 

CONSTANCE. 

Look  on  through  years  I 
We  cannot  kiss  a  second  day  like  this, 
Else  were  this  earth,  no  earth. 

NORBERT. 

With  this  day's  heaf 
We  shall  go  on  through  years  of  cold. 

CONSTANCE. 

So  best 
I  try  to  see  those  years  —  I  think  I  see. 


246  IX    A    BALCONY. 

You  walk  quick  and  new  warmth  comes ;   you  look  back 

And  lay  all  to  the  first  glow  —  not  sit  down 

Forever  brooding  on  a  day  like  this 

While  seeing  the  embers  whiten  and  love  die. 

Yes,  love  lives  best  in  its  effect ;  and  mine, 

Full  in  its  own  life,  yearns  to  live  in  yours. 

NORBERT. 

Just  so.     I  take  and  know  you  all  at  once. 

Your  soul  is  disengaged  so  easily, 

Your  face  is  there,  I  know  you  ;  give  me  time, 

Let  me  be  proud  and  think  you  shall  know  me. 

My  soul  is  slower :  in  a  life  I  roll 

The  minute  out  in  which  you  condense  yours  — 

The  whole  slow  circle  round  you  I  must  move, 

To  be  just  you.     I  look  to  a  long  life 

To  decompose  this  minute,  prove  its  worth. 

'Tis  the  sparks'  long  succession  one  by  one 

Shall  show  you  in  the  end  what  fire  was  crammed 

In  that  mere  stone  you  struck :  you  could  not  know, 

If  it  lay  ever  unproved  in  your  sight, 

As  now  my  heart  lies  ?  your  own  warmth  would  hide 

Its  coldness,  were  it  cold. 

CONSTANCE. 

But  how  prove,  how  ? 

NORBERT. 

Prove  in  my  life,  you  ask  ? 


IN    A    BALCONY.  247 

CONSTANCE. 

Quick,  Norbert  —  how  ? 

NORBERT. 

That 's  easy  told.     I  count  life  just  a  stuff 

To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man. 

Who  keeps  one  end  in  view  makes  all  things  serve. 

As  with  the  body  —  he  who  hurls  a  lance 

Or  heaps  up  stone  on  stone,  shows  strength  alike, 

So  I  will  seize  and  use  all  means  to  prove 

And  show  this  soul  of  mine  you  crown  as  yours, 

And  justify  us  both. 

CONSTANCE. 

Could  you  write  books, 
Paint  pictures  !  one  sits  down  in  poverty 
And  writes  or  paints,  with  pity  for  the  rich. 

NORBERT. 

And  loves  one's  painting  and  one's  writing  too, 
And  not  one's  mistress  !     All  is  best,  believe, 
And  we  best  as  no  other  than  we  are. 
We  live,  and  they  experiment  on  life 
Those  poets,  painters,  all  who  stand  aloof 
To  overlook  the  farther.     Let  us  be 
The  thing  they  look  at !     I  might  take  that  face 
And  write  of  it  and  paint  it  —  to  what  end  ? 
For  whom  ?  what  pale  dictatress  in  the  air 
Feeds,  smiling  sadly,  her  fine  ghost-like  form 


248  *N    A    BALCONY. 

With  eartfi's  real  blood  and  breath,  the  beauteous  life 
She  makes  despised  forever  ?     You  are  raii.e, 
Made  for  me,  not  for  others  in  the  world, 
Nor  yet  for  that  which  I  should  call  my  art, 
That  cold  calm  power  to  see  how  fair  you  look. 
I  come  to  you  —  I  leave  you  not,  to  write 
Or  paint.     You  are,  I  am.     Let  Rubens  there 
Paint  us, 

CONSTANCE. 

So  best ! 

NORBERT. 

I  understand  your  soul. 
You  live,  and  rightly  sympathize  with  life, 
With  action,  power,  success  :  this  way  is  straight. 
And  days  were  short  beside,  to  let  me  change 
The  craft  my  childhood  learnt ;  my  craft  shall  serve. 
Men  set  me  here  to  subjugate,  inclose, 
Manure  their  barren  lives  and  force  the  fruit 
First  for  themselves,  and  afterward  for  me 
In  the  due  tithe  ;  the  task  of  some  one  man, 
By  ways  of  work  appointed  by  themselves. 
I  am  not  bid  create,  they  see  no  star 
Transfiguring  my  brow  to  warrant  that  — 
But  bind  in  one  and  carry  out  their  wills. 
So  I  began  :  to-night  sees  how  I  end. 
What  if  it  see,  too,  my  first  outbreak  here 
Amid  the  warmth,  surprise  and  sympathy, 


IN    A    BALCONY. 

The  instincts  of  the  heart  that  teach  the  head  ? 

What  if  the  people  have  discerned  in  me 

The  dawn  of  the  next  nature,  the  new  man 

Whose  will  they  venture  in  the  place  of  theirs 

And  whom  they  trust  to  find  them  out  new 

To  the  new  heights  which  yet  he  only  sees  ? 

I  felt  it  when  you  kissed  me.     See  this  Queen, 

This  people  —  in  our  phrase,  this  mass  of  men  — 

See  how  the  mass  lies  passive  to  my  hand 

And  how  my  hand  is  plastic,  and  you  by 

To  make  the  muscles  iron  !     Oh,  an  end 

Shall  crown  this  issue  as  this  crowns  the  first, 

My  will  be  on  this  people  !  then,  the  strain, 

The  grappling  of  the  potter  with  his  clay, 

The  long  uncertain  struggle,  —  the  success 

In  that  uprising  of  the  spirit-work, 

The  vase  shaped  to  the  curl  of  the  god's  lip, 

While  rounded  fair  for  lower  men  to  see 

The  Graces  in  a  dance  they  recognize 

With  turbulent  applause  and  laughs  of  heart ! 

So  triumph  ever  shall  renew  itself; 

Ever  to  end  in  efforts  higher  yet, 

Ever  begun 

CONSTANCE. 

I  ever  helping  ? 

NORBERT. 

Thus ! 
[As  he  embraces  her,  enter  the  QUEEN. 


250  IN    A    BALCONY. 

CONSTANCE. 

Hist,  madam  —  so  I  have  performed  my  part. 
You  see  your  gratitude's  true  decency, 
Norbert  ?  a  little  slow  in  seeing  it ! 
Begun  to  end  the  sooner.     What 's  a  kiss  ? 

NORBERT. 

Constance ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Why,  must  I  teach  it  you  again  ? 
You  want  a  witness  to  your  dulness,  sir  ? 
What  was  I  saying  these  ten  minutes  long  ? 
Then  I  repeat  —  when  some  young  handsome  man 
Like  you  has  acted  out  a  part  like  yours, 
Is  pleased  to  fall  in  love  with  one  beyond, 
So  very  far  beyond  him,  as  he-  says  — 
So  hopelessly  in  love,  that  but  to  speak 
Would  prove  him  mad,  he  thinks  judiciously, 
And  makes  some  insignificant  good  soul 
Like  me,  his  friend,  adviser,  confidant 
And  very  stalking-horse  to  cover  him 
In  following  after  what  he  dares  not  face  — - 
When  his  end  's  gained  —  (sir,  do  you  understand  ?) 
When  she,  he  dares  not  face,  has  loved  him  first, 
—  May  I  not  say  so,  madam  ?  —  tops  his  hope, 
And  overpasses  so  his  wildest  dream, 
With  glad  consent  of  all,  and  most  of  her 
The  confidant  who  brought  the  same  about  — 


IN    A    BALCONY.  25 i 

Why,  in  the  moment  when  such  joy  explodes, 
I  do  say  that  the  merest  gentleman 
Will  not  start  rudely  from  the  stalking-horse, 
Dismiss  it  with  a  "  There,  enough  of  you  ! " 
Forget  it,  show  his  back  unmannerly  ; 
But  like  a  liberal  heart  will  rather  turn 
And  say,  "  A  tingling  time  of  hope  was  ours  — 
Betwixt  the  fears  and  faulterings  —  we  two  lived 
A  chanceful  time  in  waiting  for  the  prize. 
The  confidant,  the  Constance,  served  not  ill ; 
And  though  I  shall  forget  her  in  due  time, 
Her  use  being  answered  now,  as  reason  bids, 
Nay  as  herself  bids  from  her  heart  of  hearts, 
Still,  she  has  rights,  the  first  thanks  go  to  her, 
The  first  good  praise  goes  to  the  prosperous  tool, 
And  the  first  —  which  is  the  last  —  thankful  kiss." 

NORBERT. 

—  Constance  ?  it  is  a  dream  —  ah  see  you  smile  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

So,  now  his  part  being  properly  performed, 

Madam,  I  turn  to  you  and  finish  mine 

As  duly  —  I  do  justice  in  my  turn. 

Yes,  madam,  he  has  loved  you  —  long  and  well  — 

He  could  not  hope  to  tell  you  so  —  'twas  I 

Who  served  to  prove  your  soul  accessible. 

I  led  his  thoughts  on,  drew  them  to  their  place, 

When  oft  they  had  wandered  out  into  despair, 


252  IN    A    BALCONY. 

And  kept  love  constant  toward  its  natural  aim 
Enough  —  my  part  is  played  ;  you  stoop  half-way 
And  meet  us  royally  and  spare  Tmr  fears  — 
'Tis  like  yourself  —  he  thanks  you,  so  do  I. 
Take  him  —  with  my  full  heart !  my  work  is  praised 
By  what  comes  of  it.     Be  you  happy,  both ! 
Yourself — the  only  one  on  earth  who  can  — 
Do  all  for  him,  much  more  than  a  mere  heart 
Which  though  warm  is  not  useful  in  its  warmth 
As  the  silk  vesture  of  a  queen  !  fold  that 
Around  him  gently,  tenderly.     For  him  — 
For  him,  —  he  knows  his  own  part. 

NORBERT. 

Have  you  done  ? 

I  take  the  jest  at  last.     Should  I  speak  now  ? 
Was  yours  the  wager,  Constance,  foolish  child, 
Or  did  you  but  accept  it  ?     Well  —  at  least, 
You  lose  by  it. 

CONSTANCE. 

Now  madam,  'tis  your  turn. 
Restrain  him  still  from  speech  a  little  more 
And  make  him  happier  and  more  confident ! 
Pity  him,  madam,  he  is  timid  yet. 
Mark,  Norbert  !  do  not  shrink  now  !     Here  I  yield 
My  whole  right  in  you  to  the  Queen,  observe  ! 
With  her  go  put  in  practice  the  great  schemes 
You  teem  with,  follow  the  career  else  closed  — • 


IN    A    BALCONY.  2* 

Be  all  you  cannot  be  except  by  her  ! 
Behold  her.  —  Madam,  say  for  pity's  sake 
Any  thing  —  frankly  say  you  love  him.     Else 
He  '11  not  believe  it :  there 's  more  earnest  in 
His  fear  than  you  conceive  —  I  know  the  man. 

NORBERT. 

I  know  the  woman  somewhat,  and  confess 
I  thought  she  had  jested  better  —  she  begins 
To  overcharge  her  part.     I  gravely  wait 
Your  pleasure,  madam  :  where  is  my  reward  V 

QUEEN. 

Norbert,  this  wild  girl  (whom  I  recognize 

Scarce  more  than  you  do,  in  her  fancy-fit, 

Eccentric  speech  and  variable  mirth, 

Not  very  wise  perhaps  and  somewhat  bold 

Yet  suitable,  the  whole  night's  work  being  strange) 

—  May  still  be  right :  I  may  do  well  to  speak 

And  make  authentic  what  appears  a  dream 

To  even  myself.     For,  what  she  says,  is  true  — 

Yes,  Norbert  —  what  you  spoke  but  now  of  love, 

Devotion,  stirred  no  novel  sense  in  me, 

But  justified  a  warmth  felt  long  before. 

Yes,  from  the  first  —  I  loved  you,  I  shall  say,  — 

Strange  !  but  I  do  grow  stronger,  now  'tis  said, 

Your  courage  helps  mine  :  you  did  well  to  speak 

To-night,  the  night  that  crowns  your  twelvemonths'  toil- 

But  still  I  had  not  waited  to  discern 


254  IN    A    BALCONY. 

Your  heart  so  long,  believe  me  !     From  the  first 
The  wurce  of  so  much  zeal  was  almost  plain, 
In  absence  even  of  your  own  words  just  now 
Which  opened  out  the  truth.     Tis  very  strange, 
But  takes  a  happy  ending  —  in  your  love 
Which  mine  meets  :  be  it  so  —  as  you  choose  me, 
So  I  choose  you. 

NORBERT. 

And  worthily  you  choose  ! 
I  will  not  be  unworthy  your  esteem, 
No,  madam.     I  do  love  you  ;  I  will  meet 
Your  nature,  now  I  know  it ;  this  was  well, 
I  see,  —  you  dare  and  you  are  justified  : 
But  none  had  ventured  such  experiment, 
Less  versed  than  you  in  nobleness  of  heart, 
Less  confident  of  finding  it  in  me. 
I  like  that  thus  you  test  me  ere  you  grant 
The  dearest,  richest,  beauteousest  and  best 
Of  women  to  my  arms  !  'tis  like  yourself! 
So  —  back  again  into  my  part's  set  words  — 
Devotion  to  the  uttermost  is  yours, 
But  no,  you  cannot,  madam,  even  you, 
Create  in  me  the  love  our  Constance  does. 
Or  —  something  truer  to  the  tragic  phrase  — 
Not  yon  magnolia-bell  superb  with  scent 
Invites  a  certain  insect  —  that's  myself — 
But  the  small  eye-flower  nearer  to  the  ground : 
I  take  this  lady  ! 


IN    A    BALCONY.  2 

CONSTANCE. 

Stay  —  not  her's,  the  trap  — • 
Stay,  Norbert  —  that  mistake  were  worst  of  all. 
(He  is  too  cunning,  madam  !)  it  was  I, 
I,  Norbert,  who  .  .  . 

NORBERT. 

You,  was  it,  Constance  ?     Then, 
But  for  the  grace  of  this  divinest  hour 
Which  gives  me  you,  I  should  not  pardon  here. 
I  am  the  Queen's  :  she  only  knows  my  brain  — 
She  may  experiment  therefore  on  my  heart 
And  I  instruct  her  too  by  the  result ; 
But  you,  sweet,  you  who  know  me,  who  so  long 
Have  told  my  heart-beats  over,  held  my  life 
In  those  white  hands  of  yours,  —  it  is  not  well ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Tush  !  I  have  said  it,  did  I  not  say  it  all  ? 

The  life,  for  her  —  the  heart-beats,  for  her  sake  ! 

NORBERT. 

Enough  !  my  cheek  grows  red,  I  think.     Your  test 

There  's  not  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 

Not  she  I  least  could  love  in  all  the  world, 

Whom,  did  she  love  me,  did  love  prove  itself, 

I  dared  insult  as  you  insult  me  now, 

Constance,  I  could  say,  if  it  must  be  said, 

"  Take  back  the  soul  you  offer  —  I  keep  mine  '* 


256  IN    A    BALCONY. 

But  —  "  Take  the  soul  still  quivering  on  your  hand. 

The  soul  so  offered,  which  I  cannot  use, 

And,  please  you,  give  it  to  some  friend  of  mine, 

For  —  what 's  the  trifle  he  requites  me  with  ?  " 

I,  tempt  a  woman,  to  amuse  a  man, 

That  two  may  mock  her  heart  if  it  succumb  ? 

No  !  fearing  God  and  standing  'neath  his  heaven, 

I  would  not  dare  insult  a  woman  so, 

Where  she  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 

And  he,  I  cared  to  please,  ten  emperors  ! 

CONSTANCE. 

Norbert ! 


I  love  once  as  I  live  but  once. 
"What  case  is  this  to  think  or  talk  about  ? 
I  love  you.     Would  it  mend  the  case  at  all 
Should  such  a  step  as  this  kill  love  in  me  ? 
Your  part  were  done  :  account  to  God  for  it, 
But  mine  —  could  murdered  love  get  up  again, 
And  kneel  to  whom  you  pleased  to  designate 
And  make  you  mirth  ?     It  is  too  horrible. 
You  did  not  know  this,  Constance  ?  now  you  know 
That  body  and  soul  have  each  one  life,  but  one : 
And  here  's  my  love,  here,  living,  at  your  feet. 

CONSTANCE. 

See  the  Queen  !     Norbert  —  this  one  more  last  word 


IN    A    BALCONY. 

If  thus  you  have  taken  jest  for  earnest  —  thus 
Loved  me  in  earnest  .  .  . 

NORBERT. 

Ah,  no  jest  holds  here  ! 

Where  is  the  laughter  in  which  jests  break  up  ? 
And  what  this  horror  that  grows  palpable  ? 
Madam  —  why  grasp  you  thus  the  balcony  ? 
Have  1  done  ill  ?     Have  I  not  spoken  the  truth? 
How  could  I  other?     Was  it  not  your  test, 
To  try  me,  and  what  my  love  for  Constance  meant  ? 
Madam,  your  royal  soul  itself  approves, 
The  first,  that  I  should  choose  thus  !  so  one  takes 
A  beggar  —  asks  him  what  would  buy  his  child, 
And  then  approves  the  expected  laugh  of  scorn 
Returned  as  something  noble  from  the  rags. 
Speak,  Constance,  I  'm  the  beggar  !  Ha,  what 's  this  ? 
You  two  glare  each  at  each  like  panthers  now. 
Constance  —  the  world  fades  ;  only  you  stand  there  ! 
You  did  not  in  to-night's  wild  whirl  of  things 
Sell  me  —  your  'soul  of  souls,  for  any  price  ? 
No  —  no  —  'tis  easy  to  believe  in  you. 
Was  it  your  love's  mad  trial  to  o'ertop 
Mme  by  this  vain  self-sacrifice  ?  well,  still  — 
Though  I  should  curse,  I  love  you.     I  am  love 
And  cannot  change  !  love's  self  is  at  your  feet. 

[ QUEEN  goes  out. 
CONSTANCE. 

Feel  my  heart ;  let  it  die  against  your  own. 


258  IX    A    BALCONY. 

NORBERT. 

Against  my  own  !  explain  not ;  let  this  bo. 
This  is  life's  height. 

CONSTANCE. 

Yours  !    Yours  !    Yours  ! 

NORBERT. 

You  and  I  — 

Why  care  by  what  meanders  we  are  here 
In  the  centre  of  the  labyrinth  ?  men  have  died 
Trying  to  find  this  place  out,  which  we  have  found. 

CONSTANCE. 

Found,  found  ! 

NORBERT. 

Sweet,  never  fear  what  she  can  do  — 
We  arc  past  harm  now. 

CONSTANCE. 

On  the  breast  of  God. 
I  thought  of  men  —  as  if  you  were  a  man. 
Tempting  him  with  a  crown  !  • 

NORBERT. 

This  must  end  here  — 
It  is  too  perfect ! 


IN    A    BALCONY.  2511 

CONSTANCE. 

There  's  the  music  stopped. 
What  measured  heavy  tread  ?  it  is  one  blaze 
About  me  and  within  me. 

NORBERT. 

Oh,  some  death 

Will  run  its  sudden  finger  round  this  spark, 
And  sever  us  from  the  rest  — 

CONSTANCE. 

And  so  do  well 
Now  the  doors  open  — 

NORBERT. 

'Tis  the  £uard  comes. 

CONSTANCE. 

Kiss 


SAUL. 

1. 

SAID  Abner,  "At  last  thou  art  come!  Ere  I  tell,  ere 

thou  speak, 

Kiss  my  eheek,  wish  me  well !  "  Then  I  wished  it,  and 

did  kiss  his  eheek. 

And  he,  4k  Since  the  King,  0  my  friend,  for  thy  counte 
nance  sent, 

Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  nave  we  ;  nor  until  from  his 

tent 

Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth 

yet, 

Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water 

be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three 

days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  or 

of  praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  theii 

strife, 


SAUL.  2ul 

And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarc  h  sinks  back 

upon  life. 

2. 

Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  0  beloved  !     God's  child,  with 

his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  ant! 

blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild 

heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert  ! " 

3. 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 
Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and   rose  on  my 

feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The  tent  was 

unlooped  ; 
I  pulled   up   the  spear   that   obstructed,    and    under  I 

stooped ; 
Hands    and    knees   on    the    slippery    grass-patch,    all 

withered  and  gone, 
That    extends    to   the  second   inclosure,  I   groped    my 

way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly   open.     Then  onco 

more  I  prayed, 
And  opened   the   foldskirts    and    entered,   and  was  noi 

afraid, 


262  SAUL. 

But  spoke,  u  Here  is   David,  thy  servant !  "     And  nc 

voice  replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  nought  but  the  blackness  ;  but  soon  I 

descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness  —  the  vast, 

the  upright 
Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion:  and  slow  into 

sight 

Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all  ; — 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  thro'  the  tent-roof,  —  showed 

Saul. 

4. 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop  ;  both  arms  stretched 

out  wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to 

each  side : 
He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there, —  as,  caught 

in  his  pangs 
And  waiting   his   change  the   king-serpent  all   heavily 

hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in   the  pine,  till   deliverance 

come 
With   the   spring-time,  —  so  agonized   Saul,  drear  and 

stark,  blind  and  dumb. 

5. 

Then  I  tuned  my  harp,  —  took  off  'the  lilies  we    twine 

round  its  chords 


SAUL.  2G3 

Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide —  those 

sunbeams  like  swords  ! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one 

after  one, 
So  docile  they  come   to   the    pen-door,   till   folding   be 

done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they 

have  fed 
Where   the   long  grasses   stifle   the   water   within    the 

stream's  bed  ; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows 

star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us,  — •  so  blue  and  so  far ! 


—  Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland  will 

each  leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player ;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets 

elate, 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another  :  and  then,  what 

has  weight 
To   set   the   quick   jerboa   a-musing    outside    his   sand 

house  — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and 

half  mouse  !  — 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and 

our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family 

here. 


2G4  SAUL. 


Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine- 
song,  when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye   in  good   friendship,  and 

great  hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the   sense  of  this  world's  life. — And 

then,  the  last  song 
"When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey  —  "  Bear, 

bear  him  along 
"With  his  few  faults    shut  up  like    dead  flowerets  !  are 

bairn-seeds  not  here 
To  console  us  ?     The  land  has  none  left,  such  as  he  on 

the  bier. 
Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother  ! "  —  And 

then,  the  glad  cliaunt 
Of  the    marriage, — first    go  the  young  maidens,    next, 

she  whom  we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling.  —  And  then, 

the  great  march 

"Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Nought  can  break  ;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends  ? 

—  Then,  the  chorus  intoned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned  .  . 
But  I  stopped  here  —  for  here  in  the  darkness,  Saul 

groaned. 


And  I   paused,  held   my   breath   in  such    silence,    and 
listened  apart ; 


SAUL.  2Ga 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered,  —  and 

sparkles  'gan  dart 
From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once  with  a 

start  — 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at 

heart. 
So  the  head  —  but  the  body  still  moved   not,  still  hung 

there  erect. 
And   I   bent    once    again   to   my   playing,   pursued   it 

unchecked, 
As  I  sang,  — 

9. 

"  Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigour  !  no 
spirit  feels  waste, 

Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing,  nor  sinew  un 
braced. 

Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living !  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to 

rock  — 

The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  —  the  cool 

silver  shock 

Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  —  the  hunt  of  the 

bear, 

And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his 

lair. 

And  the  meal  —  the  rich  dates  —  yellowed  over  with 

gold  dust  divine, 

And  the  locust's-flesh  steeped  hi  the  pitcher  ;  the  full 

draught  of  wine, 


266  SAUL. 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bull- 
rushes  tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and 

well. 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to  em 
ploy 

All  the  heart   and  the  soul  and  the  senses,  forever  in 

j°7! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword 

thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious 

reward  ? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as 

men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly-departed,  and  heard  her  faint 

tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  "  Let  one  more 

attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  thro'  a  lifetime,  and  all 

was  for  best  ..." 
Then  they  sung  thro'  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not 

much,  —  but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  worki/ig 

whence  grew 
Such  result  as  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit 

strained  true  ! 

And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood  —  that  boyhood  of  won 
der  and  hope, 
Present  promise,  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the 

eye's  scope, — • 


SAUL.  2G7 

• 

Till  lo,  thou   art   grown   to  a  monarch  ;    a   people   is 

thine  ; 
And  all  gifts  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head 

combine  ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage, 

like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labour,  and  lets  the 

gold  go  : 

High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crown 
ing  it,  —  all 

Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature  —  King 

Saul!" 

10. 

And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit,  heart,  hand,  harp 

and  voice, 
Each  lifting   Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each   bidding 

rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for  —  as  when,  dare 

I  say, 
The  Lord's  army  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through 

its  array, 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot  —  "  Saul !  "  cried  I, 

and  stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.     Then  Saul, 

who  hung  propt 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by 

his  name. 
H'-ive  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right 

to  the  aim, 


2(58  SAUL. 

And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  he-;,  that  held, 

(he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a 

broad  bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate,  —  leaves 

grasp  of  the  sheet  ? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to 

his  feet, 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black  but  alive  yet,  your 

mountain  of  old, 
With   his   rents,  the  successive    bequeathings    of    ages 

untold  — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow 

and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest  —  all 

hail,  there  they  are  ! 
Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the 

nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green 

on  its  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardours  of  summer  !     One  long 

shudder  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was 

stilled, 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and 

aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained  ?   all  to  traverse  'twixt 

hope  and  despair  — 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come  —  so  he  waited.     Awhile 

his  right  hand 


SAUL.  260 

Held  the  brow;  helped  the  eyes  left  too  vacant  forthwith 

to  remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter :  'twas  Saul 

as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt 

any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from 

the  shore 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean  —  a  sun's  slow 

decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved .  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and 

entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intense :  so,  arm 

folded  in  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

11. 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 
(For,  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me)  what  next 

should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him  ?  —  Song 

filled  to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it 

yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty !    Beyond, 

on  what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the 

eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup 

they  put  by.? 


270  SAUL. 

He  saith,  "  It  is  good; "  still  he  drinks  not  —  he  lets  me 

praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

•12. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pastures,  when  round 

me  the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence  —  above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in 

sleep, 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow,  and  mused  on  the  world  that 

might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the 

hill  and  the  sky  : 
And  I  laughed  —  "  Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be 

passed  with  my  flocks, 
Let  me  people  at  least  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and 

the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the 

show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall 

know  ! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage 

that  gains, 
And   the   prudence   that  keeps  what  men  strive  for/ 

And  now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again ;  I  grew  surer ;  so  ouc« 

more  the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus  — - 


SAUL.  271 


"  Yea,  my  king,"- 
I  began  —  <:  tliou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts 

that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and 

by  brute  : 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it 

bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,  —  how  its 

stem  trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler  ;  then  safely 

outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round  ;  and  thou  mindedst  when 

these  too,  in  turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect  ;  yet 

more  was  to  learn, 
Ev'n  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.     Our 

dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow  ?  or  care 

for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them  ? 

Not  so  !  stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in   their   place,  while  the 

palm-wine  shall  staunch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee 

such  wine. 

Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for  !  the  spirit  be  thine 
lly  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  stilJ 

shalt  enjoy 


272  SAUL. 

More  indeed,  than  at  first  when  inconscious,  the  life  of  a 

boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running !  each  deed 

thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world ;  until  e'en  as 

the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him, 

though  tempests  efface, 

Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  every 
where  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,  —  so,  each  ray  of 

thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall 

thrill 
Thy  whole  people  the  countless,  with  ardour,  till  they  too 

give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons,  who  in  turn,  fill  the  south  and 

the  north 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse 

in  the  past. 

But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit ;  thou  diest  at  last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eye-ball,  the  rose  at  her 

height, 
So  with  man  —  so  his  power  and  his  beauty   forever 

take  flight. 
No !  again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine !  look  forth 

o'er  the  years  — 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual ;  begin 

with  the  seer's  ! 


SAUL.  273 

Is  Saul  dead  ?  in  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb  — 

bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till  built 

to  the  skies. 
Let  it  mark   where  the  great  First  King  slumbers  — 

whose  fame  would  ye  know  ? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record 

shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such  was  Saul, 

so  he  did  ; 
With   the   sages  directing   the  work,  by  the   populace 

chid,  — 
For  not  half,  they  '11  affirm,  is  comprised  there  !     Which 

fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they 

shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and 

record 

With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story,  —  the  states 
man's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.    The  river's 

a-wave 
With    smooth  paper-reeds    grazing    each  other    when- 

prophet  winds  rave  : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their 

part 
In  thy  being !     Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God 

that  thou  art." 
18 


27-t  SAUL. 

14. 
And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  But  0  Thou  who  didst  grant 

me  that  day, 
And  before    it   not   seldom   hast   granted,   thy   help   to 

essay 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure,  —  my  Shield  arid 

my  Sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was 

my  word,  — 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then    at  the  summit  of  human 

endeavour 

And  scaling  the  highest  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hope 
less  as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  Heaven  above  me  —  till,  Mighty 

to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  .hand  cleared  that  distance  —  God's 

throne  from  man's  grave  ! 
Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending  —  my  voice  to  my 

heart, 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels   that 

night  I  took  part, 
As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my 

sheep, 

And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep ! 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  up 
heaves 
The  dawn   struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder    and 

Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 


SAUL.  275 

15. 

I  say  then,  —  my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and  ever  more 

strong 
Made   a   proffer   of  good   to   console  him  —  he    slowly 

resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The  right  hand 

replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the 

swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see  —  the  huge  sweat  that  his  coun 
tenance  bathes, 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins 

as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp 

set  before. 

He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory,  —  ere  en-or  had  bent 
The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion ;  and  still, 

though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God 

did  choose, 
To  receive  what   a   man   may    waste,  desecrate,  never 

quite  lose. 
So  sank   he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  till,  stayed  by  the 

pile 
Of  his  armour  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned 

there  awhile, 

And  so  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the  tent- 
prop,  to  raise 


276  SAUL. 

His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack  —  till  I  touched 

on  the  praise 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  times,  to  the  man  patient 

there, 

And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.  Then  first  I 

was  'ware 

That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  hi:-  vast 

knees 

Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak- 
roots  Avhich  please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.  I  looked  up  to 

know 

If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  :  he  spoke  not, 

but  slow 

Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 

Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow  : 

thro'  my  hair 

The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my 

head,  with  kind  power — • 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  i\ 

flower, 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scruti 
nized  mine  — 

And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  !  but  where  was 

the  sign  ? 

J  yearned  —  "  Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a 

bliss, 

I  would  add  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and 

this. 


SAUL.  277 

I  would   give  tliee   new  life   altogether,  as   good,  ages 

hence, 
As  this   moment,  —  had   love   but   the   warrant,  love'3 

heart  to  dispense !  " 

16. 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more  —  no 

song  more  !  outbroke  — 

17. 

"  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  Creation :  I  saw  and  I 

spoke ! 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in 

my  brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork  —  returned 

him  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work  —  all 's  love,  yet 

all's  law! 
Now   I   lay   down   the  judgeship   he   lent   me.     Each 

faculty  tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dew-drop 

was  asked. 
Haye  I  knowledge  ?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  wisdom 

laid  bare. 
Have  I  forethought  ?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the 

Infinite  care  ! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success  ? 
I  but  open  my  eyes,  —  and  perfection,  no  more  and  no 


278  SAUL. 

In  the  kind  1  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen 

God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the 

clod. 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises 

it  too) 

The  submission  of  Man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  All- 
Complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet ! 
Yet   with   all   this    abounding    experience,   this    Deity 

known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my 

own. 

There 's  one  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hood 
wink, 

I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh  as  I  think) 
Lest,   insisting  to   claim  and   parade   in   it,  wot  ye,  I 

worst 
K'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold!  I  could  love  if 

I  durst ! 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man   may  o  'er- 

take 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  :  I  abstain,  for 

love's  sake  ! 
—  What,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ?  when 

doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hun 

dreclth  appall  ? 


SAUL.  279 

In  the  least  things,  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest 

of  all  ? 

Do  1  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it  ?  here, 

the  parts  shift  ? 
Here,  the  creature   surpass  the  Creator,  the  end,  what 

Began  ?  — 
Would  I  fain   in  my    impotent    yearning  do  all  for  this 

man, 
And  dare  doubt  He  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet 

alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever   have    entered   my  mind,   the  bare  will, 

much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous 

dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?  to  make  such 

a  soul, 
Such  a  body,,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the 

whole  ? 
And  doth   it   not  enter   my  mind  (as  my  warm   tears 

attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one 

more,  the  best  ? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain   at 

the  height 
This  perfection,  —  succeed  with  life's  dayspring,  death's 

minute  of  night  ? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,   snatch  Saul,  the  mis 
take;, 


280  SAUL. 

Saul,  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now,  —  and  bid  him 

awake 
From  the   dream,   the  probation,    the   prelude,   to  find 

himself  set 
Clear  and    safe   in   new   light   and   new  life,  —  a  new 

harmony  yet 
To  be  run,   and   continued,  and   ended  —  who  knows  ? 

—  or  endure ! 
The  man   taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to 

make  sure. 
By    the    pain-throb,    triumphantly    winning    intensified 

bliss, 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggle 

in  this. 

18. 

"I  believe  it!  'tis  Thou,  God,   that   givest,  'tis   I   who 

receive  : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 
All 's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt 

to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open   these  arms  to 

the  air. 
From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy 

dread  Sabaoth  : 
/  will  ?  —  the  mere  atoms  despise  me  !  and  why  am  I 

loth 
To  look  that,   even    that   in   the   face   too  ?  why  is  it  I 

dare 


SAUL.  281 

Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance  ?  what  stops  my 

despair  ? 
This;  —  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but 

what  man  Would  do  ! 
See  the  king  —  I  would  help  him  but  cannot,  the  wishes 

fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to 

enrich, 

To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would  —  know 
ing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.  —  Oh,  speak  through 

me  now  ! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love  ?     So  wilt  Thou  —  so 

wilt  Thou  ! 
So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,   ineffablest,  uttermost 

Crown  — 
And  thy  love    fill    infinitude  wholly,   nor   leave  up  nor 

down 
One  spot   for   the   creature  to   stand   in !     It  is  by  no 

breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  Salvation  joins  issue 

with  death  ! 

As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy    power,   that  exists  with   and  for  it,  of   Being  be 
loved  ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the   strongest  shall 

stand  the  most  weak. 
Tis  the  weakness  in    strength  that  I  cry  for  !  my  fiesh, 

that  I  seek 


282  SAUL. 

In    the    Godhead !  I   seek  and   I  find   it.      O  Saul,    u 

shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee  :    a  Man  like  to 

me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever !  a  Hand  like 

this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !     See  the 

Christ  stand!" 

19. 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the 

night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about   me,  to  left  and  to 

right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,   the  alive  —  the 

aware  — 
I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly 

there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news  — 
Life  or  death.     The    whole    earth    was    awakened,  hell 

loosed  with  her  crews; 
And  the  stars  of  night  beat   with    emotion,  and  tingled 

and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the   strong  pain   of  pent  knowledge :  but  I 

fainted  not. 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and   supported 

—  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,   and   quenched    it   with    quiet,  and  hoi) 

behest, 


SAUL.  283 

Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to 

rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,   all  that  trouble  had  withered  from 

earth  — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die   out  in  the  day's   tender 

birth  ; 
In  the  gathered   intensity   brought   to .  the   gray  of  the 

hills  ; 

In  the  shuddering  forests'  new  awe  ;  in  the  sudden  wind- 
thrills  ; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each  with  eye 

sidling  still 
Tho'  averted,  in  wonder  and  dread  ;  and  the  birds  stiff 

and  chill 
That  rose  heavily,  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid 

with  awe. 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, —  he  felt  the  new 

Law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by 

the  flowers ; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar,  and  moved 

the  vine-bowers. 
And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent 

and  low, 
With  then:  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — E'en  sol 

it  is  so. 


«DE  GUSTIBUS— " 

l. 

YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice  — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say,  — 

The  happier  they  ! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  ! 

2. 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world, 

Is,  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 


"DE  GUSTIBUS—  28o 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands)  — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  south, 
Where  the  baked  cicalas  die  of  drouth, 
And  one  sharp  tree  ('tis  a  cypress)  stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the.  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Without  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea,  and  not  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 
And  says  there's  news  to-day  —  the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver- wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling. 
—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy  ! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me  — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais.) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she ; 
So  it  always  was,  so  it  still  shall  be  ! 


WOMEN   AND   ROSES. 

1. 

I  DREAM  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me  ? 

2. 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages, 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  the  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidena, 
Beauties  unborn.     And  all,  to  one  cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

3. 

Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached  : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 

4. 

Stay  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot  climb, 
You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time  I 


WOMEN    AND    ROSES.  '-'-S7 

How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze  you, 
Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you  ? 
Oh  !  to  possess,  and  be  possessed  ! 
Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid  breast ! 
But  once  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  passion, 
Drink  once  and  die  !  —  In  vain,  the  same  fashion, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

5. 

Dear  rose,  thy  joy 's  undimmed  ; 

Thy  cup  is  ruby-rimmed, 

Thy  cup's  heart  nectar-brimmed. 

6. 

Deep  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 
The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 
So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning, 
Quench  like  him  at  a  plunge  my  yearning, 
Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips  ! 
Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 
Prison  all  my  soul  in  eternities  of  pleasure ! 
Girdle  me  once  !     But  no —  in  their  old  measure 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

7. 

Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud  's  the  babe  unborn, 
First  streak  of  a  new  morn. 


288  WOMKN    AND    HOSES. 


Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the  clear  ! 

What 's  far  conquers  what  is  near. 

Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  beholders, 

Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  own  flesh  moulders. 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change  ? 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  artist  that  began  her, 

Shaped  her  to  his  mind  !  —  Alas !  in  like  manner 

They  circle  their  >'ose  on  my  ro«e  tree. 


PKU'JUS- 

AMONG  these  latter  busts  we  count  by  scores, 

Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 

Each  with  his  bay-leaf  fillet,  loose-thonged  vest, 

Loric  and  low-browed  Gorgon  on  the  breast. 

One  loves  a  baby  face,  with  violets  there, 

Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  tke  hair, 

As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could  bear. 

Now  read  here.     "  Protus  ends  a  period 
Of  empery  beginning  with  a  god  : 
Born  in  the  porphyry  chamber  at  Byzant ; 
Queens  by  his  cradle,  proud  and  ministrant. 
And  if  he  quickened  breath  there,  'twould  like  fir® 
Pantingly  through  the  dim  vast  realm  transpire. 
A  fame  that  he  was  missing,  spread  afar  — 
The  world,  from  its  four  corners,  rose  in  war, 
Till  he  was  borne  out  on  a  balcony 
To  pacify  the  world  when  it  should  see. 
The  captains  ranged  before  him,  one,  his  hand 
Made  baby  points  at,  gained  the  chief  command. 
19 


290  PROTUS. 

And  day  by  day  more  beautiful  he  grew 

Tn  shape,  all  said,  in  feature  and  in  hue, 

While  young  Greek  sculp  tors  "gazing  on  the  okild 

Were,  so,  with  old  Greek  sculpture,  reconciled. 

Already  sages  laboured  to  condense 

In  easy  tones  a  life's  experience  : 

And  artists  took  grave  counsel  to  impart 

In  one  breath  and  one  hanrl-swpep,  all  their  art  — 

To  make  his  graces  prompt  as  blossoming 

Of  plentifully-watered  palms  in  spring : 

Since  well  beseems  it,  whoso  mounts  the  throne, 

For  beauty,  knowledge,  strength,  should  stand  alone, 

And  mortals  love  the  letters  of  his  name." 

—  Stop  !  Have  you  turned  two  pages?     Still  the  saraa 

New  reign,  same  date.     The  scribe  goes  on  to  <=ay 

How  that  same  year,  on  such  a  month  and  day, 

"  John  the  Pannonian,  groundedly  believed 

A  blacksmith's  bastard,  whose  hard  hand  reprieved 

The  Empire  from  its  fate  the  year  before,  — 

Came,  had  a  mind  to  fake  the  crown,  and  wore 

The  same  for  six  years,  (during  which  the  llun-s 

Kept  off  their  fingers  from  us)  till  his  sons 

Put  something  in  his  liquor  "  —  and  so  forth. 

Then  a  new  reign.     Stay  —  "  Take  at  its  just  worth 

(Subjoins  an  annotator)  "what  I  give 

As  hearsay.     Some  think  John  let  Protus  live 

And  slip  away.     'Tis  said,  he  reached  man's  age 

At  some  hlmd  northern  court  ;  made  first  a  page, 


TROT  US.  2SH 

Then,  tutor  to  the  children  —  last,  of  use 

About  the  hunting-stables.     I  deduce 

He  wrote  the  little  tract  '  On  worming  dogs/ 

Whereof  the  name  in  sundry  catalogues 

Is  extant  yet.     A  Protus  of  the  Race 

Is  rumoured  to  have  died  a  monk  in  Thrace,  — 

And  if  the  same,  he  reached  senility." 

Here  's  John  the  Smith's  rough-hammered  head.      Great 

eye 

Gross  jaw  and  griped  lips  do  what  granite  can 
To  give  you  the  crown-grasper.     What  a  man  ! 


HOLY-CROSS  DAY. 

ON    \ViriCH   THE   JEWS   WERE   FORCED   TO   ATTEND    AN    ANNUAL 
CHRISTIAN   SERMON    IN    ROME. 

[ "  Now  was  come  about  Holy-Cross  Day,  and  now  must  my  lord 
preach  his  first  sermon  to  the  Jews  :  as  it  was  of  old  cared  for  in 
the  merciful  bowels  of  the  Church,  that,  so  to  speak,  a  crumb  at 
least  from  her  conspicuous  table  here  in  Koine,  should  be,  though 
but  once  yearly,  cast  to  the  famishing  dogs,  under-trampled  :md 
bespitten-upon  beneath  the  feet  of  the  guests.  And  a  moving 
sight  in  truth,  this,  of  so  many  of  the  besotted,  blind,  restive,  and 
ready-to-perish  Hebrews!  now  paternally  brought —  nay,  (for  He 
saith,  '  Compel  them  to  come  in,')  haled,  as  it  were,  bv  the  head 
and  hair,  and  against  their  obstinate  hearts,  to  partake  of  the 
heavenly  grace.  What  awakening,  what  striving  with  tears,  what 
working  of  a  yeasty  conscience!  Nor  was  my  lord  wanting  to 
himself  on  so  apt  an  occasion  ;  witness  the  abundance  of  conver 
sions  which  did  incontinently  reward  him  :  though  not  to  my  lord 
be  altogether  the  glory.''  —  Diary  by  the  Bishop'*  Secretary,  1600. j 

Though  what  the  Jews  really  said,  on  thus  being  driven  (o 
church,  was  rather  to  this  effect : 


FEE,  faw,  fura  !  bubble  and  squeak  ! 
Blessedest  Thursday  's  the  fat  of  the  week, 
Rumble  and  tumble,  sleek  and  rough, 


HOLY-CROSS    DAY.  293 

Stinking  and  savoury,  smug  and  gruff, 

Take  the  church-road,  for  the  bell's  due  chinio 

Gives  us  the  summons  —  'tis  sermon-time. 


Boh,  here  's  Barnabas  !  Job,  that 's  you  ? 

Up  stumps  Solomon  —  bustling  too  ? 

Shame,  man  !  greedy  beyond  your  years 

To  handsel  the  bishop's  shaving-shears  ? 

Fair  play  's  a  jewel !  leave  friends  in  the  lurch  ? 

Stand  on  a  line  ere  you  start  for  the  church 


Higgledy  piggledy,  packed  we  lie, 
Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine  in  a  stye, 
Wasps  in  a  bottle,  frogs  in  a  sieve, 
Worms  in  a  carcase,  fleas  in  a  sleeve. 
Hist !  square  shoulders,  settle  your  thumbs 
And  buzz  for  the  bishop  —  here  he  comes. 

4. 

Bow,  wow,  wow  —  a  bone  for  the  dog  ! 
I  liken  his  Grace  to  an  acorned  hog. 
What,  a  boy  at  his  side,  with  the  bloom  of  a  lass, 
To  help  and  handle  my  lord's  hour-glass  ! 
Didst  ever  behold  so  lithe  a  chine  ? 
His  cheek  hath  laps  like  a  fresh-singed  swine. 


294  HOLY-CROSS    DAY. 

5. 

Aaron  's  asleep  —  shove  hip  to  haunch, 

Or  somebody  deal  him  a  dig  in  the  paunch ! 

Look  at  the  purse  with  the  tassel  and  knob, 

And  the  gown  with  the  angel  and  thingumbob. 

What 's  he  at,  quotha  ?  reading  his  text ! 

Now  you  Ve  his  curtsey  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 


6. 

Sec  to  our  converts  —  you  doomed  black  dozen  — 

No  stealing  away  —  nor  x>g  nor  cozen  ! 

You  five  that  were  thieves,  deserve  it  fairly  ; 

You  seven  that  were  beggars,  will  live  less  sparely. 

You  took  your  turn  and  dipped  in  the  hat, 

Got  fortune  —  and  fortune  gets  you  ;  mind  that ! 


Give  your  first  groan  —  compunction  's  at  work  ; 

And  soft !  from  a  Jew  you  mount  to  a  Turk. 

Lo,  Micah,  —  the  selfsame  beard  on  chin 

He  was  four  times  already  converted  in  ! 

Here  's  a  knife,  clip  quick  —  it 's  a  sign  of  grace  — 

Or  he  ruins  us  all  with  his  hanging-face. 

8. 

Whom  now  is  the  bishop  a-leering  at  ? 
I  know  a  point  where  his  text  falls  pat. 


1IOLY-CHOSS    DAY.  295 

I  '11  tell  him  to-morrow,  a  word  just  now 
Went  to  my  heart  and  made  me  vow 
I  meddle  no  more  with  the  worst  of  trades  — 
Let  somebody  else  pay  his  serenades. 

9. 

Groan  all  together  now,  whee  —  hee  —  hee  ! 

It 's  a-work,  it 's  a-work,  ah,  woe  is  me ! 

It  began,  when  a  herd  of  us,  picked  and  placed, 

Were  spurred  through  the  Corso,  stripped  to  the  waist 

Jew-brutes,  with  sweat  and  blood  well  spent 

To  usher  in  worthily  Christian  Lent. 

10. 

It  grew,  when  the  hangman  entered  our  bounds, 

Yelled,  pricked  us  out  to  this  church  like  hounds. 

It  got  to  a  pitch,  when  the  hand  indeed 

Which  gutted  my  purse,  would  throttle  my  creed. 

And  it  overflows,  when,  to  even  the  odd, 

Men  I  helped  to  their  sins,  help  me  to  their  God. 

11. 

But  now,  while  the  scapegoats  leave  our  flock, 
And  the  rest  sit  silent  and  count  the  clock, 
Since  forced  to  muse  the  appointed  time 
On  these  precious  facts  and  truths  sublime,  — 
Let  us  fitly  employ  it,  under  our  breath, 
In  saying  Ben  Ezra's  Song  of  Death. 


296  HOLY-CIS  OSS    DAY. 

12. 

For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he  died, 

Called  sons  and  sons'  sons  to  his  side, 

And  spoke,  "  This  world  has  been  harsh  and  strangej 

Something  is  wrong,  there  needeth  a  change. 

But  what,  or  where  ?  at  the  last,  or  first  ? 

In  one  point  only  we  sinned,  at  worst. 

13. 

"  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet, 
And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set. 
"When  Judah  beholds  Jerusalem, 
The  stranger-seed  shall  be  joined  to  them  : 
To  Jacob's  House  shall  the  Gentiles  cleave. 
So  the  Prophet  saith  and  his  sons  believe. 

14. 

"  Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 
Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place : 
In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 
Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame, 
When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o'er 
The  oppressor  triumph  for  evermore  ? 


"  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to  keep  : 

Bade  never  fold  the  hands  nor  sleep 

'Mid  a  faithless  world,  —  at  watch  and  ward, 


HOLY-CROSS    DAY.  297 

Till  the  Christ  at  the  end  relieve  our  guard. 
By  his  servant  Moses  the  watch  was  set : 
Though  near  upon  cock-crow  —  we  keep  it  jet. 

10. 

"  Thou  !  if  thou  wast  He,  who  at  mid-watch  came, 

By  the  starlight  naming  a  dubious  Name  ! 

And  if  we  were  too  heavy  with  sleep  —  too  rash 

With  fear  —  O  Thou,  if  that  martyr-gash 

Fell  on  thee  coming  to  take  thine  own, 

And  we  gave  the  Cross,  when  we  owed  the  Throne  — • 

17. 

"  Thou  art  the  Judge.     We  are  bruised  thus. 
But,  the  judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us  ! 
Thine  too  is  the  cause  !  and  not  more  thine 
Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs  and  swine, 
Whose  life  laughs  through  and  spits  at  their  creed, 
Who  maintain  thee  in  word,  and  defy  thee  in  deed ! 

18. 

"  We  withstood  Christ  then  ?  be  mindful  how 

At  least  we  withstand  Barabbas  now ! 

Was  our  outrage  sore  ?  but  the  worst  we  spared, 

To  have  called  these  —  Christians,  —  had  we  dared  ! 

Let  defiance  to  them,  pay  mistrust  of  thee, 

And  Rome  make  amends  for  Calvary  ! 


298  HOLY-CROSS    DAY. 

19. 

"  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age  to  age. 
By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage, 
By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's  disgrace, 
By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's  place, 
By  the  branding-tool,  the  bloody  whip, 
And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellowship, 

20. 

"  We  boast  our  proofs,  that  at  least  the  Jew 
Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the  Devil's  crew. 
Thy  face  took  never  so  deep  a  shade 
But  we  fought  them  in  it,  God  our  aid ! 
A  trophy  to  bear,  as  we  march,  a  band 
South,  east,  and  on  to  the  Pleasant  Land  !  " 

[The  present  Pope  abolished  this  bad  business  of  the 
sermon.  —  R.  B.] 


THE  GUARDIAN- ANGEL; 

A.   PICTURE  AT   FANO. 


DEAR  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me ! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

2. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 

And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb  —  and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door ! 


I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 


300  THK    GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God  !  And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 
Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread  ? 

4. 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  expands 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  supprest. 

5. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired  ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
Arid  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O,  world,  as  God  has  made  it !  all  is  beauty  : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 

6. 

<J;iercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend)  —  that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently,—  with  his  own  head  turned  away 


THE    GUARDIAN-ANGEL.  301 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 
Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

7. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 
—  My  angel  with  me  too  :  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame,  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent) 

8. 

And  since  he  did  not  work  so  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong,  — 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  Love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend  ? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


CLEON. 

**  As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said  "  — 

CLEON  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 

And   laugh   their   pride  when   the   light  wave  lisps 

«  Greece  ")  — 
To  Protos  in  his  Tyranny  :  much  health  ! 

They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now  : 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift ;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee : 
And  one  white  she-slave  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves,  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift, 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves) 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea-wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 


CLEOX.  303 

Well-counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence  ! 
For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act 
Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 
Thy  recognition  of  the  use  of  life  ; 
Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  erf  thy  tower, 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, 
Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work  '  mid  good  acclaim 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect, 
Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake  — - 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed. 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  east. 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower  ;  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 
To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 
Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words,  and  describe  thy  royal  face  — 
Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard :  in  one  short  life 
T,  Cleon,  have  ejected  all  those  things 
wondering!  v  dost  enumerate. 


304  CLEON. 

That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine,  —  and  also  mine  the  little  chaunt, 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  the'~  ,iets. 
The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine  ; 
The  Pcecile,  o'er-storied  its  whole  length, 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  pairtting,  is  mine  too. 
I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before  ; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 
Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 
And  puinng  us  to  ignorance  again. 
For  music,  —  why,  I  have  combined  the  moods, 
Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine  ; 
Thus  much  the  people  know  and  recognize, 
Throughout  our  seventeen  islands.     Marvel  not. 
We  of  tnese  latter  days,  with  greater  mind 
Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite, 
Look  not  so  great  (beside  their  simple  way) 
To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once, 
One  mind-point,  and  no  other  at  a  time,  — 
Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us 
With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age, 
Great  in  his  way,  —  not  ours,  nor  meant  for  our  % 
And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know. 
Yet,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth, 
This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here, 
Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive, 


CLEON.  oO«J 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 
As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts, 
But  each  part  having  reference  to  all,  — 
How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 
Endure  effacement  by  another  part  ? 
Was  the  thing  done  ?  —  Then  what 's  to  do  again  ? 
See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 
Suppose  the  artist  made  a  perfect  rhomb, 
And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid  — 
He  did  not  overlay  them,  superimpose 
The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 
But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 
Making  at  last  a  picture ;  there  it  lies. 
So,  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made, 
The  portions  of  mankind  —  and  after,  so, 
Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 
Or  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise  ? 
Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men,  — 
In  such  a  synthesis  the  labour  ends. 
Now,  mark  me  —  those  divine  men  of  old  time 
Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 
The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty  ; 
And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do  more  than  reach  ? 
It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 
At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere, 
And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 
In  due  succession  :  but  the  finer  air 
Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 
Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 
20 


306  CLEOX. 

The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere, 
Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did  ; 
Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 
Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 
And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 
Up  to  the  visible  height  —  and  after,  void  ; 
Not  knowing  air's  more  hidden  properties. 
And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries  out  to  Zeus 
To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  its  life  — 
Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow  ? 
Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out, 
That  he  or  other  God,  descended  here 
And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 
What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown 
Piecemeal  or  in  succession  ;  —  showed,  I  say, 
The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 
Of  all  His  children  from  the  birth  of  time, 
His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 
I  now  go  on  to  image,  —  might  we  hear 
The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each, 
Show  where  the  labour  lay  and  where  the  ease, 
And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent,  everywhere  ! 
This  is  a  dream.     But  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 
That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs 
Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  power.-;  — 
The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are  richer  far 
Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock ; 
The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe  ; 
The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet  ; 


307 


The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers ; 

That  young  and  tender  crescent-moon,  thy  slave, 

Sleeping  upon  her  robe  as  if  on  clouds, 

Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 

What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates  ? 

I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer's,  no  — 

Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no  —  nor  carved 

And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his  friend  : 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point : 

But  1  have  entered  into  sympathy 

"With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 

Who,  separate,  ignored  each  others'  arts. 

Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all  ? 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger  —  I  have  dashed 

Rose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large. 

I  stand,  myself.     Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is  !  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate  ? 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand  —  what  then  f 

I  pass  too  surely  —  let  at  least  truth  stay ! 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me  as  I  declare,  0  king, 
My  works,  in  all  these  varicoloured  kinds, 
So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men  — 


308 


Thou  askest  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 

I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 

The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life. 

Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closeth  up, 

I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand  : 

Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost  thyself 

The  fortunate  of  men.     "  For  "   (writest  thou) 

"  Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I  leave  nought : 

Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall  sing, 

The  pictures  men  shall  study ;  while  my  life, 

Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy, 

Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 

Is  lost  indeed  ;  since,  —  what  survives  myself  ? 

The  brazen  statue  that  o'erlooks  my  grave, 

Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 

And  that  —  some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 

Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps, 

To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 

I  go,  then  :  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go  ! " 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows  ? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 
Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time  ? 
If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  aught  perceived, 
Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  couldst  have  looked 


OLE  OX.  o09 

On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird, 

Ere  man  had  yet  appeared  upon  the  stage  — 

Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 

The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 

Conceding  which,  —  had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee 

'•*  Wilt  thou  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this, 

Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done  ?  " 

Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "  Ay,  by  making  each 

Grow  conscious  in  himself —  by  that  alone. 

All's  perfect  else  :  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 

The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims 

And  slides ;  the  birds  take  flight,  forth  range  the  beasts 

Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go  — 

And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life,  is  put, 

Like  fire  from  off  Thy  finger  into  each, 

So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 

But  'tis  pure  fire  —  and  they  mere  matter  are  ; 

It  has  them,  not  they  it :  and  so  I  choose, 

For  man,  Thy  last  premeditated  work 

(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  this  scheme) 

That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both, 

A  quality  arise  within  the  soul, 

Which,  intro-active,  made  to  supervise 

And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 

And  so  be  happy."     Man  might  live  at  first 

The  animal  life  :  but  is  there  nothing  more  ? 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives  ;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 


310  CLEON. 

The  more  joy -giving  will  his  life  become. 
The  man  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best. 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said  : 
"  Let  progress  end  at  once,  —  man  make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense." 
In  man  there 's  failure,  only  since  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
A  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  that  life, 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's  head. 
This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul, 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to  ; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.     But  alas ! 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there, 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('tis  no  dream  — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there 's  a  world  of  capability 
For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us, 
Inviting  us  ;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all, 
And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "  Take  no  jot  moro 
Than  ere  you  climbed  the  tower  to  look  abroad  ! 
Nay,  so  much  less,  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 
Deduction  to  it."     We  struggle  —  fain  to  enlarge 
Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 


CLKOX. 

Increase  our  power,  supply  fresli  oil  to  life, 
Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness.     No, 
It  skills  not :  life  's  inadequate  to  joy, 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 
Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-spurt 
Thin  from  her  tube ;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 
What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 
From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up, 
And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same  ? 
The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 
Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange  —  what  boots 
To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could  ? 
She  cannot  lift  beyond  her  first  straight  thread. 
And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 
While  he  sees  God's.     Is  it,  for  Zeus  to  boast 
"  See,  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  despair  — 
That  I  may  be  still  happier  —  for  thy  use  !  " 
If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  Lord, 
As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing  :  'tis  not  so  — 
Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness  ? 
Still,  no.     If  care  —  where  is  the  sign,  I  ask  — 
And  get  no  answer :  and  agree  in  sum, 
0  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement, 
Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 
Most  progress  is  most  failure  !  thou  sayest  well. 

The  last  point  now  :  —  thou  dost  accept  a  case 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 


312  CLEON. 

With  artist-gifts  —  to  such  a  man  as  I  — 

Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed ; 

For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 

What  ?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 

Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 

(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine) 

With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 

And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 

With  actually  living  ?  —  Otherwise 

Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king  ? 

Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 

How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise,  can  act  — 

Is  this  as  though  I  acted  ?  if  I  paint, 

Carve  the  young  Phoebus,  am  I  therefore  young  ? 

Methinks  I  'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 

The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art  ! 

Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 

How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more : 

But,  knowing  nought,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 

Yon  rower  with  the  moulded  muscles  there 

Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 

I  can  write  love-odes  —  thy  fair  slave  's  an  ode. 

I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 

For  being  beloved :  she  turns  to  that  young  man 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 

I  know  the  joy  of  kingship  :  well  —  thou  art  king  ! 

"  But,"  sayest  thou  —  (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 
To  find  ihee  tripping  on  a  mere  word)  "  what 


CLEON.  313 

Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays  :  that  does  not  die  : 

Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 

And  ^Eschylus,  because  we  read  his  plays  ! " 

Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come  and  take 

Thy  slave  in  my  despite  —  drink  from  thy  cup  — 

Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive  ? 

Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still,  — 

In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy 

Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 

In  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen  ; 

While  every  day  my  hairs  fall  more  and  more, 

My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase  — 

The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 

The  consummation  coming  past  escape 

When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy  — 

When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 

Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths, 

Alive  still,  in  the  phrase  of  such  as  thou, 

I,  I,  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 

The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over  much, 

Shall  sleep  in  my  urn.     It  is  so  horrible, 

I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 

Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 

Unlimited  in  capability 

For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 

To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger  forces  us. 

That,  stung  by  straitness  of  our  life,  made  strait 

On  purpose  to  make  sweet  the  life  at  large  — 

Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death 


314  CLKOX. 

We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 

Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his  wings.     But,  no 

Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it-;  and,  alas  ! 

He  must  have  done  so  —  were  it  possible  ! 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
Glad  for  what  was.     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 
To  one  called  Paulus  —  we  have  heard  his  fame 
Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him  — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew, 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 
Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us  ? 
Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  O  king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one, 
As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all. 
He  writeth,  doth  he  ?  well,  and  he  may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars  !  certain  slaves 
Who  touched  on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and  Christ, 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrines  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 


THE  TWINS. 
u  Give  "  and  "  It-shall-be-given-unto-you." 

1. 
GRAND  rough  old  Martin  Luther 

Bloomed  fables  —  flowers  on  furze, 
The  better  the  uncouther  : 

Do  roses  stick  like  burrs  ? 

2. 

A  beggar  asked  an  alms 

One  day  at  an  abbey-door, 
Said  Luther ;  but,  seized  with  qualms, 

The  Abbot  replied,  "  We  're  poor  !  " 

3. 

•*  Poor,  who  had  plenty  once, 
"  When  gifts  fell  thick  as  rain  : 

"  But  they  give  us  nought,  for  the  nonce, 
"  And  how  should  we  give  again  ?  " 


316  THE    TWINS. 

4. 

Then  the  beggar,  "  See  your  sins ! 

"  Of  old,  unless  I  err, 
"  Ye  had  brothers  for  inmates,  twins. 

"  Date  and  Dabitur." 

5. 

"  While  Date  was  in  good  case 
"  Dabitur  flourished  too  : 

"  For  Dabitur's  lenten  face, 
"  No  wonder  if  Date  rue." 

6. 

"  Would  ye  retrieve  the  one  ? 

"  Try  and  make  plump  the  other ! 
"  When  Date's  penance  is  done, 

"  Dabitur  helps  his  brother." 


"  Only,  beware  relapse  !  " 
The  Abbot  hung  his  head. 

This  beggar  might  be,  perhaps, 
An  angel,  Luther  said. 


POPULARITY. 

1. 

STAND  still,  true  poet  that  you  are, 
I  know  you  ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 

Some  night  you  '11  fail  us.     When  afar 
You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 

Knew  you,  and  named  a  star. 

2. 

My  star,  God's  glow-worm  !  Why  extend 
That  loving  hand  of  His  which  leads  you, 

Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  dark  world,  unless  He  needs  you  — 

Just  saves  your  light  to  spend  ? 

3. 

His  clenched  Hand  shall  unclose  at  last 
I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty. 

My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 
Accepts  the  coming  ages'  duty, 

Their  present  for  this  past. 


318  POPULARITY. 

4. 

That  day,  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 
Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising ; 

"  Others  give  best  at  first,  but  Thou 
Forever  set'st  our  table  praising,  — 

Keep'st  the  good  wine  till  now." 


5. 

Meantime,  I  '11  draw  you  as  you  stand, 
With  few  or  none  to  watch  and  wonder, 

I  '11  say  —  a  fisher  (on  the  sand 

By  Tyre  the  Old)  his  ocean-plunder, 

A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

6. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 
And  coloured  like  Astarte's  eyes 

Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells  ? 


7. 

And  each  bystander  of  them  all 
Could  criticize,  and  quote  tradition  ; 

How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  pall, 
To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  ambition ; 

Worth  sceptre,  crown  and  ball. 


POPULARITY.  Si  9 

8. 

Yet  there  's  the  dye,  —  in  that  rough  mesh, 
The  sea  has  only  just  o'er-whispered  ! 

Live  whelks,  the  lip's- beard  dripping  fresh, 
As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 

Through  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh. 


Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such  hapgings  for  his  cedar-house, 

That  when  gold-robed  he  took  the  throne 
In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 

Might  swear  his  presence  shone 

10. 

Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 

Which  burns  deep  in  the  blue-bell's  womb, 

What  time,  with  ardours  manifold, 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold. 

11. 

Mere  conchs  !  not  fit  for  warp  or  woof  ! 

Till  art  comes,  —  comes  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify,  —  refines  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 


320  POPULARITY. 

12. 

And  there 's  the  extract,  flasked  and  fine, 
And  priced,  and  salable  at  last ! 

And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes  and  Nokes  combine 
To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 

Put  blue  into  their  line. 

13. 

Hobbs  hints  blue,  —  straight  he  turtle  eats. 

Nobbs  prints  blue,  —  claret  crowns  his  cup. 
Nokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats,  — 

Both  gorge.     Who  fished  the  naurex  up  ? 
What  porridge  had  John  Keats  ? 


THE   HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

A  MIDDLE-AGE  INTERLUDE. 

(In  the  original)  ROSA  MUNDI  ;  SEU,  FULCITE  ME   FLORIBUS.    A 

CONCEIT      OF      MASTER      GYSBRECHT,      CANON-REGULAR     OP 
SAINT      JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR,     YPRES      CITY.         CANTCQUE, 

Virgilius.    AND  HATH   OFTEN    BEEN    SUNG   AT  HOCK-TIDE 

AND   FESTIVALS.      GAVISUS   ERAM,   JessideS. 

(It  would  seem  to  be  a  glimpse  from  the  burning  of  Jacques  du 
Bourg-Molay,  at  Paris,  A.  D.  1314;  as  distorted  by  the  refraction 
from  Flemish  brain  to  brain,  during  the  course  of  a  couple  of  cen 
turies. —  R.  B.) 


1. 

PREADMONISHETH  THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

THE  Lord,  we  look  to  once  for  all, 

Is  the  Lord  we  should  look  at,  all  at  once : 

He  knows  not  to  vary,  saith  St.  Paul, 

Nor  the  shadow  of  turning,  for  the  nonce. 

See  Him  no  other  than  as  he  is ; 
Give  both  the  Infinites  their  due  — 
21 


322  THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

Infinite  mercy,  but,  I  wis, 
As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

[Organ:  plagal-cadenc& 
As  infinite  a  justice  too. 


ONE    SINGETH. 

John,  Master  of  the  Temple  of  God, 

Falling  to  sin  the  Unknown  Sin, 
What  he  bought  of  Emperor  Aldabrod, 

He  sold  it  to  Sultan  Saladin  — 
Till,  caught  by  Pope  Clement,  a-buzzing  there, 

Hornet-prince  of  the  mad  wasps'  hive, 
And  dipt  of  his  wings  in  Paris  square, 

They  bring  him  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

{And  wanteth  there  grace  of  lute  or  clavicitheti  ye 
shall  say  to  confirm  him  who  singeth  — 

TVe  bring  John  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

3. 

In  the  midst  is  a  goodly  gallows  built ; 

'Twixt  fork  and  fork,  a  stake  is  stuck  ; 
But  first  they  set  divers  tumbrils  a-tilt, 

Make  a  trench  all  round  with  the  city  muck ; 
Inside  they  pile  log  upon  log,  good  store  ; 

Fagots  not  few,  blocks  great  and  small, 
Reach  a  man's  mid-thigh,  no  less,  no  more,  — 

For  they  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY.  323 

CHORUS. 

We  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

4. 

Good  sappy  bavins  that  kindle  forthwith  ; 

Billets  that  blaze  substantial  and  slow ; 
Pine-stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith  ; 

Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk-white  glow  : 
Then  up  they  hoist  me  John  in  a  chafe, 

Sling  him  fast  like  a  hog  to  scorch, 
Spit  in  his  face,  then  leap  back  safe, 

Sing  "  Laudes  "  and  bid  clap-to  the  torch. 
CHORUS. 

Lam  Deo  —  who  bids  clap-to  the  torch. 

5. 

John  of  the  Temple,  whose  fame  so  bragged, 

Is  burning  alive  in  Paris  square  ! 
How  can  he  curse,  if  his  mouth  is  gagged  ? 

Or  wriggle  his  neck,  with  a  collar  there  ? 
Or  heave  his  chest,  while  a  band  goes  round  ? 

Or  threat  with  his  fist,  since  his  arms  are  spliced  ? 
Or  kick  with  his  feet,  now  his  legs  are  bound  ? 

—  Thinks  John  —  I  will  call  upon  Jesus  Christ. 

[Here  one  crosseth  himself. 

6. 

Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  bought  and  sold, 
Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  eaten  and  drunk; 


324  THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

To  him,  the  Flesh  meant  silver  and  gold. 

(Sah'd  reverentid.) 
Now  it  was,  "  Saviour,  bountiful  lamb, 

I  have  roasted  thee  Turks,  though  men  roast  me. 
See  thy  servant,  the  plight  wherein  I  am  ! 

Art  thou  a  Saviour  ?     Save  thou  me  !  " 
CHORUS. 

'Tis  John  the  mocker  cries,  Save  thou  me ! 

7. 

Who  maketh  God's  menace  an  idle  word  ? 

—  Saith,  it  no  more  means  what  it  proclaims, 
Than  a  damsel's  threat  to  her  wanton  bird  ?  — 

For  she  too  prattles  of  ugly  names. 
—  Saith,  he  knoweth  but  one  thing, — what  he  knows  ? 

That  God  is  good  arid  the  rest  is  breath ; 
Why  else  is  the  same  styled,  Sharon's  rose  ? 

Once  a  rose,  ever  a  rose,  he  saith. 
CHORUS. 

O,  John  shall  yet  find  a  rose,  he  saith ! 

8. 
Alack,  there  be  roses  and  roses,  John  ! 

Some  honied  of  taste  like  your  leman's  tongue. 
Some,  bitter  —  for  why  ?  (roast  gayly  on  !) 

Their  tree  struck  root  in  devil's  dung! 
When  Paul  once  reasoned  of  righteousness 

And  of  temperance  and  of  judgment  to  come, 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY.  325 

Good  Felix  trembled,  he  could  no  less  — 
John,  snickering,  crook'd  his  wicked  thumb. 

CHORUS. 
What  cometh  to  John  of  the  wicked  thumb  ? 


Ha  ha,  John  plucks  now  at  his  rose 

To  rid  himself  of  a  sorrow  at  heart ! 
Lo,  —  petal  on  petal,  fierce  rays  unclose  ; 

Anther  on  anther,  sharp  spikes  outstart ; 
And  with  blood  for  dew,  the  bosom  boils ; 

And  a  gust  of  sulphur  is  all  its  smell ; 
And  lo,  he  is  horribly  in  the  toils 

Of  a  coal-black  giant  flower  of  Hell ! 
CHORUS. 

What  maketh  Heaven,  that  maketh  Hell. 

10. 

So,  as  John  called  now,  through  the  fire  amain, 

On  the  Name,  he  had  cursed  with,  all  his  life  - 
To  the  Person,  he  bought  and  sold  again  — 

For  the  Face,  with  his  daily  buffets  rife  — 
Feature  by  feature  It  took  its  place  ! 

And  his  voice  like  a  mad  dog's  choking  bark 
At  the  steady  Whole  of  the  Judge's  Face  — 

Died.     Forth  John's  soul  flared  into  the  dark. 

SUBJOINETH    THE    ABBOT    DEODAET. 

God  help  all  poor  souls  lost  in  the  dark  ! 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

1. 

'I  WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt,  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 

2. 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 
Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


Help  me  to  hold  it :  first  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 


TWO    IX    THE    CAMPAGNA.  327 

4. 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal,  —  and  last 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 


The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air  — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

6. 

Such  life  there,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 
Such  letting  Nature  have  her  way 

While  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers. 

7. 

How  say  you  ?     Let  us,  0  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  abovti. 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 


328  TWO    IN    THE    CAMPAGNA. 

8. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more  — 

Nor  yours,  nor  mine,  —  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?  what  the  core 

Of  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 


I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 
See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs,  —  your  part,  my  par* 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

10. 

No.     I  yearn  upward  —  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, —  I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak  — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

11. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  tb;it  minute  ?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow. 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 


TWO    IN    THE    CAMPAGNA. 
12. 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again  ! 
The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern  — 

Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.. 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

[  Time —  Shortly  after  the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe.] 

LEI  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow. 
Look  out  if  yonder  's  not  the  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row  ! 
That 's  the  appropriate  country  —  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer  ! 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop  ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture  ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels  ; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 


A    GRAMMAfljAN*8    FUNERAL.  31 

No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit ! 
Thither  our  path  lies  —  wind  we  up  the  heights  — 

Wait  ye  the  warning  ? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's ; 

He  's  for  the  morning  ! 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  che-sts,  erect  the  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm,  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd  !    Sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 

Safe  from  the  weather  ! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat. 

Lyric  Apollo  ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow  ? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone  ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "  New  measures,  other  feet  anon  ! 

My  dance  is  finished  ?  " 
No,  that 's  the  world's  way !  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city.) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 


332  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUXLKAL. 

"  What  \,  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  keepest  furled  ? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs,  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give  ! "  —  So  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page : 

Learned,  we  found  him  ! 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too  —  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"  Up  with  the  curtain  !  " 
This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life  comes  next  ? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still,  there  's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all.     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy : 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I  'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy  !  " 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
"When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give  ; 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it ! 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts  — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 

(Here  's  the  town-gate  reached  :  there 's  the  market-place 
Gaping  before  us.) 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  333 

Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus) 
Still  before  living  he  'd  learn  how  to  live  — 

No  end  to  learning. 
Earn  the  means  first  —  God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say  —  "  But  time  escapes,  — 

"  Live  now  or  never  !  " 
He  said,  "  What's  Time?  leave  Now  for  dogs  and  ape 3  ! 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then :  deeper  drooped  his  head  ; 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead  ; 

Tussis  attacked  him 
"  Now,  Master,  take  a  little  rest !  "  —  not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled  ! 
Step  two  a-breast,  the  way  winds  narrowly.) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He,  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure, 

Bad  i^  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great  ?  did  he  not  throw  ou  Godj 

(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 


334  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUN  KRAI,. 

Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant  ? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment ! 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing  —  heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure  : 
"  Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not  ?  "  he  answered  "  Yes. 

"  Hence  with  life's  pale  lure !  " 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it  : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here  —  should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplext 

Seeking  shall  find  Him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  Death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar  ; 
Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife. 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business  —  let  it  be  !  — 

Properly  based  Oun  — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here 's  the  platform,  here  's  the  proper  place. 

Hail  to  your  purlieus 


A    GRAMMARIAN  S    FUNERAL.  OoO 

All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here 's  the  top-peak !  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can  there. 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know  — 

Bury  this  man  there  ? 
Here — here 's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go !  let  joy  break  with  the  storm  — 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  : 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him  —  still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects. 

Living  and  dying. 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 

1. 

ALL  June,  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
ISfow,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves, 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?  Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

2. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?     So  ! 
Break  the  string  —  fold  music's  wing. 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing ! 

3. 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion.  —  Heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?     'Tis  well ! 

Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heave  a,  blest  are  they. 


ANOTHER  WAY  OF  LOVE. 

1. 

JUNE  was  not  over, 

Though  past  the  full, 
And  the  best  of  her  roses 
Had  yet  to  blow, 
When  a  man  I  know 
(But  shall  not  discover, 

Since  ears  are  dull, 
And  time  discloses) 

Turned  him  and  said  with  a  man's  true  air, 
Half  sighing  a  smile  in  a  yawn,  as  'twere,  — 
"  If  I  tire  of  your  June,  will  she  greatly  care?® 

2. 
Well,  Dear,  in-doors  witfc  you ! 

True,  serene  deadness 
Tries  a  man's  temper. 
What 's  in  the  blossom 
June  wears  on  her  bosom? 
Can  it  clear  scores  with  you  ? 
Sweetness  and  redness, 
Eadem  semper  I 

Go,  let  me  care  for  it  greatly  or  slightly ! 
22 


338  ANOTHER    WAY    OF    LOVF. 

If  June  mends  her  bowers  now,  your  hand  left  unsightly 
By  plucking  their  roses,  —  my  June  will  do  rightly. 


And  after,  for  pastime, 
If  June  be  refulgent 
With  flowers  in  completeness, 
All  petals,  no  prickles, 
Delicious  as  trickles 
Of  wine  poured  at  mass-time,  — 
And  choose  One  indulgent 
To  redness  and  sweetness  : 
Or  if,  with  experience  of  man  and  of  spider, 
She  use  my  June-lightning,  *he  strong  insect-ridder, 
To  stop  the  fresh  spinning,  —  why,  June  will  consider. 


•»  TRANSCENDENTALISM : " 

A   POEM   IN   TWELVE    BOOKS. 

STOP  playing,  poet!  may  a  brother  speak  ? 

'Tis  you  speak,  that 's  your  error.     Song 's  our  art : 

Whereas  you  please  to  speak  these  naked  thoughts 

Instead  of  draping  them  in  sights  and  sounds. 

—  True  thoughts,  good  thoughts,  thoughts  fit  to  treasure 

up  ! 

But  why  such  long  prolusion  and  display, 
Such  turning  and  adjustment  of  the  harp, 
And  taking  it  upon  your  breast  at  length, 
Only  to  speak  dry  words  across  its  strings  ? 
Stark-naked  thought  is  in  request  enough  — 
Speak  prose  and  holloa  it  till  Europe  hears  ! 
The  six-foot  Swiss  tube,  braced  about  with  bark, 
Which  helps  the  hunter's  voice  from  Alp  to  Alp  — 
Exchange  our  harp  for  that,  —  who  hinders  you  ? 

But  here 's  your  fault ;  grown  men  want  thought,  you 

think ; 
Thought 's  what  they  mean  by  verse,  and  seek  in  verse : 


840  TRANSCENDENTALISM. 

Boys  seek  for  images  and  melody, 

Men  must  have  reason  —  so  you  aim  at  men. 

Quite  otherwise !     Objects  throng  our  youth,  'tis  true, 

We  see  and  hear  and  do  not  wonder  much. 

If  you  could  tell  us  what  they  mean,  indeed ! 

As  Swedish  Brehme  never  cared  for  plants 

Until  it  happed,  a-walking  in  the  fields, 

He  noticed  all  at  once  that  plants  could  speak, 

Nay,  turned  with  loosened  tongue  to  talk  with  him. 

That  day  the  daisy  had  an  eye  indeed  — 

Colloquised  with  the  cowslip  on  such  themes  ! 

We  find  them  extant  yet  in  Jacob's  prose. 

But  by  the  time  youth  slips  a  stage  or  two 

While  reading  prose  in  that  tough  book  he  wrote, 

(Collating,  and  emendating  the  same 

And  settling  on  the  sense  most  to  our  mind) 

We  shut  the  clasps  and  find  life's  summer  past. 

Then,  who  helps  more,  pray,  to  repair  our  loss  — 

Another  Boehme  with  a  tougher  book 

And  subtler  meanings  of  what  roses  say,  — 

Or  some  stout  Mage  like  him  of  Halberstadt, 

John,  who  made  things  Boehme  wrote  thoughts  about  ? 

He  with  a  "  look  you  !  "  vents  a  brace  of  rhymes, 

And  in  there  breaks  the  sudden  rose  herself, 

Over  us,  under,  round  us  every  side, 

Nay,  in  and  out  the  tables  and  the  chairs 

And  musty  volumes,  Boehme's  book  and  all,  — 

Buries  us  with  a  glory,  young  once  more, 

Pouring  heaven  into  this  shut  house  of  life. 


TRANSCENDENTALISM.  341 

So  come,  the  harp  back  to  your  heart  again ! 
You  are  a  poem,  though  your  poem  's  naught. 
The  best  of  all  you  did  before,  believe, 
Was  your  own  boy's-face  o'er  the  finer  chords 
Bent,  following  the  cherub  at  the  top 
That  points  to  God  with  his  paired  half-moon  wings 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 

I. 

THIS  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feei  hung  to,-— 

So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to  ! 

2. 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on  — 

Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on ! 


ONE   WORD   MORE. 

TO   £.  B.  B. 
1. 


THERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 


Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas  : 

These,  the  world  might  view  —  but  One,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving  — 

Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 

Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 


344  ONE    WORD    MORE. 

3. 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

4. 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  with  it,  "  Ours  —  the  treasure 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

5. 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please  ?     You  whisper  "  Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o*  the  wicked, 
1  >;t;_-k  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  thro'  Florence)  — 


ONE    WORD    MORE.  345 

Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated. 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he  —  "  Certain  people  of  importance  n 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet  —  "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting.'* 


You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

7. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  importance  : 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

8. 
What  oi  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 


This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves  that  longs  not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 
(Ah,  the  prize  !  )  to  find  his  love  a  language 
Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 


346  ONE    WORD    MORE. 

Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that 's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 

Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,  — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 

Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

10. 

Wherefore  ?    Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement ! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  his  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked  —  "Shall  smiling  help 

us?" 

When  they  drank  and  sneered  —  "A  stroke  is  easy  !  " 
When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 
Throwing  him  for  thanks  —  "  But  drought  was  pleasant." 
Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 
Thus  the  doing  savours  of  disrelish  ; 
Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 
O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 


ONE    WORD    MORE.  347 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude  — 

"  How  should'st  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ?  * 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  — 

"  Egypt's  flesh-pots  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better  " 

11. 

Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

12. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

13. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues. 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 


848  ONE    WORD    MORE. 

So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me  ; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to-  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing  — 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love  1 

14. 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  thro'  bronze,  may  breathe  thro'  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once,  as  I  do. 

15. 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth, —  the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 
I  am  mine  and  yours  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 
Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 


ONE    WORD    MORE.  319 

Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 

Not  as  Lippo,  Roland  or  Andrea, 

Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence  — 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also  ! 

Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

16. 

Not  but  that  you  know  me  !     Lo,  the  moon's  self ! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  colour, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth,. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  houseroofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  —  glad  to  finish. 

17. 

What,  there  's  nothing  in  the  moon  note-worthy  r 
Nay  —  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy) 
All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos) 


350  ONE    WORD    MORE. 

She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman  - 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats  —  him,  even  ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal  — 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  ice-berg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  chrystals  i 

Proves  she  as  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved- wor*., 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also  ! 

18. 

What  were  seen  ?  None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know, 

Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  bom  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 


ONE    WORD    MORE.  o«)l 

19. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 

This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets  ! 

Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side  —  there  's  the  wonder  — 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you, 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

20. 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom ! 


.OAN 


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